Be My Downfall
by Rionne
Summary: A BrianMichael fic. Michael has some news for Brian. Brian can't cope, and pushes Michael - and himself - too far. (UPDATE!: Chapter 10)
1. Default Chapter

**Title: **Be My Downfall  
**Spoilers:** Through Season 4  
**Warnings: **Some violence in later chapters, A/U after Season 3, supplemented with Season 4 plot lines.  
**Fandom:** US QAF  
**Archive Permission:** Always and ATP  
**Rating:** R  
**Category:** Angst, Romance, WIP  
**Pairing:** Michael/Brian, Ted/Emmett, and Michael/Ben and Brian/Justin mentioned.  
**Disclaimer: **No copyright infringement is intended. No revenue generated, that's for sure.  
**Summary:** Michael has some news for Brian. Brian can't cope, and pushes Michael - and himself - too far.  
**Feedback:** Of all kinds is greatly appreciated and craved.  
  
_Author Note: Title and story inspired by the song Downfall by Matchbox Twenty:  
_  
Wonder how you sleep  
I wonder what you think of me  
If I could go back  
Would you have ever been with me  
I want you to be unused  
I want you to remember  
I want you to believe in me  
I want you on my side  
  
Come on and lay it down  
I've always been with you  
Here and now  
Give all that's within you  
Be my savior  
And I'll be your downfall  
Mmm mmm mmm  
  
Here we go again  
Ashamed of being broken in  
We're getting off track  
I wanna get you back again  
I want you to trouble me  
I wanted you turning down  
I want you to agree with me  
I want so much so bad  
  
Come on and lay it down  
I've always been with you  
Here and now  
Give all that's within you  
Be my savior  
And I'll be your downfall  
Mmm mmm mmm  
  
Yeah, be my savior  
(Only love can save us now)  
(Don't lay me down)  
(Only love can save us now)  
I'll be your downfall  
(I'll be your downfall)  
(Ah, love can save us now)  
(Don't save me now)  
  
Now I'm back on my own  
Hear my feet, they're made of stone  
Man, I make you go where I go  
Well hell, you, can I take you home  
Well, I'm coming home on my back  
Kissing me, your lips painted black  
Let me be your downfall  
Let me be your downfall, baby  
  
**__**

**_

* * *

_**

**__**

**_BE MY DOWNFALL - PROLOGUE  
_**  
Michael was blissfully adrift; cradled on a bed of soft, buoyant clouds. Or maybe it was the $500 Goose down featherbed. Or, better yet, maybe it was the cheap pot. He snorted ruefully at his pointless introspection, watching with glazed eyes as the smoke from the joint tucked between his fingers curled and drifted lazily towards the ceiling. Who the hell cared what it was? He hadn't a care in the whole fucking world. What was there left to care - fuck, how he hated that word, _c.a.r.e. _- about anyways? Everything, everybody, he ever cared about was either gone or just didn't give a damn anymore. So why should he? Why should he always be the one left behind with trampled feelings?  
  
Hand behind his head, joint between his lips, ankles crossed, and in a state of drug induced ecstasy; that was exactly what he going to stop doing. Caring. Right here. Right now. In this very big, lonely bed. Everything around him seemed to persistently remind him that he was alone in every sense of the word - emotionally, physically, mentally. Hell, he didn't even know if _he_, Michael, was there anymore; because what happens when you strip away everything that makes a person who and what they are?  
  
He laughed - with no mirth - at his inevitable introspection, his annoying little habit of over self-examination. He always did get this way when he was high, or at least, that's what _he_ always said. Shit - don't go there, don't go there, _don't fucking go there_. You're going to stop caring, remember? This was going to take practice, after a whole life of inherent compassion and consideration.  
  
As if testing him further, the ringing of the telephone rudely jostled his zoned out thoughts. He was oddly intrigued by the way the ringing pierced his addled brain, reverberated through his body...mocked him. Fucking telephone. No chance in hell was he going to answer it. The answering machine picked up - a simple _beep_, leave a message. He'd erased that warm family message that his supposedly happy family had recorded almost two years ago. It contained a voice he never wanted to hear again, as long as he lived, which he hoped wasn't too long.  
  
"Sweetie, are you there? Michael?"  
  
He closed his eyes at the sound of the gentle voice, grinding his teeth until his jaw ached. Pain seemed to be the only reminder of his dull existence.  
  
"Honey, I'm just calling to check on you...make sure everything's okay....I haven't heard from you since, well, you know..." the slightly southern accented voice quavered a bit, unsure and brimming with worry. Michael knew if he could see his face, the sky blue eyes would be filled with compassion - caring. There was that fucking word again. He placed a hand on his pale forehead, squeezed his throbbing temple. _Damn you, Emmett. Please...just... -  
_  
"If you need anything, I'm here. I'll always be here. Just 'cause I'm a married man now, doesn't mean you can't count on me - Old Reliable Em." The light, cheerful voice that was Emmett Honeycutt suddenly became very quiet, choked with barely contained emotion. "Please honey...take care of yourself. Bye, Michael."  
  
_Married_....God, that one, simple word conjured up so many things that it wasn't even funny. It was how this whole fucking mess had started. Did Em have a way with words, or did he? There was no drug strong enough to remove the pain, to make him forget, to not care. He'd tried, to no avail. It was too deeply ingrained upon the raw interior of his soul. Many would say it was the most beautiful thing about him. Right now, it was the trait he despised most about himself.  
  
He rolled over onto his stomach and squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to allow the onslaught of stinging tears their means of escape. But, like everything else, and like they always did; the hot tears rolled down his ivory skin against his will, memories surfaced unbidden, and he relived the real-life nightmare yet again. The same one that consumed his dreams every night, returning to stalk his consciousness in the light of day. He saw the same face - so real he was tempted to reach out and stroke a soft cheek - that he concurrently loved and hated. He heard the words, absorbed the touches, and felt the pain all over again - the pain that had eventually led to the hell he was existing in now. It always reached for him, seeking to pull him under, consume him with cold, greedy fingers - and he always gave in, knowing he could not win his own internal battle, pitched against the evil that resides in the darkest corners of even the most benevolent of people. He could not pull free; not without the source of his pain there to hold to him, tell him it would all be okay in the end. How fucked is that, was his last coherent thought as the darkness descended, and pulled him under.  
  
**_CHAPTER ONE - FOUR MONTHS EARLIER  
_**  
"Mmmnnfff, that was goooood." Brian licked his fingers clean of the rich chocolate mousse, sucking loudly on each digit.  
  
Michael snickered between bites, unable to resist the opportunity to poke fun at his best friend, even though at the moment they were both a little drunk, and his quick wit wasn't very, well, quick. Even when it wasn't that funny they still giggled like teenagers - although Brian Kinney would never admit that he did anything that even remotely resembled giggling. Michael knew the truth, however; and it was one of those things Brian only did in his presence, like so many other things.  
  
"Really? You mean there is actually something besides sex that gives you pleasure?"  
  
Brian laughed in fake amusement, took a swig of Beam, then handing it to Michael, passing a trademark Kinney smirk along with it.  
  
"You give me pleasure. I've never had sex with you."  
  
Michael raised his eyebrows, and would have outright laughed if his mouth wasn't full of chocolate mousse cake. Brian would kill him right there in the loft if even a speck of chocolate touched his beloved sofa.  
  
"Thanks. Glad to be of some constructive use."  
  
"You're saying sex isn't constructive?" Brian's hazel eyes widened in feigned shock.  
  
"Not when your whole fucking world revolves around it," Michael said, his tone light and slightly muffled by the cake in his mouth. The effect was rather endearing.  
  
Brian shrugged, spreading his arms palms upwards in a gesture of innocence. "My point exactly." He tossed Michael a toothy grin, nudging his thigh playfully with a bare foot.  
  
Michael leaned a bit closer, squinting directly at Brian's pearly white teeth, then shrunk back. He couldn't resist teasing around with Brian, sharing jokes that only they understood the hilarity of. It had been way too long - and besides, he felt he needed to lighten the mood as much as possible, before he said what he came here to say. "I know what to get you for your B-day."  
  
Brian raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow, briefly wondering if something was stuck in his teeth. "What? Life supply of condoms and lube?"  
  
"No - some of that teeth whitening shit. If your gonna get grey hair, might as well have white teeth. Must be hard - turning 32, I mean." He instinctively dodged the pillow he knew was coming.  
  
"Fuck you!" Brian smacked Michael with the nearest pillow, careful to avoid getting any food on the pristine cover. "You keep shoveling that chocolate cake like a pregnant lesbian and I'll have to roll your fat ass in and out of the loft."  
  
Michael smiled - _that_ smile - the one that had captured Brian's heart almost 20 years ago, the one he had been seeing too little of lately, but not because Michael didn't have reason to smile,(although that little recurring jealous, possessive streak in Brian liked to think he was the only one who had the power to make Michael smile like that) but because it seemed they didn't spend as much time together as they used to.  
  
The smile turned boyishly mischievous as Michael lifted the bottom of his snug, solid black tee-shirt, exposing a tight, rippled abdomen and perfect pale skin.  
  
Brian had to force himself to keep chewing, and swallow without choking. That was a very un-Michael like response. He knew Michael had changed in the last two years, in more ways than one and definitely in the positive sense; but it really wasn't sinking in until just recently. The Michael of two years ago wouldn't have responded as he did a few seconds prior to Brian's 'I've never had sex with you'; more than likely he would have been stung, covering it up by furtively changing the subject. This Michael had reacted with complete indifference. Sexy confidence. Fuck, Brian thought, slightly - okay, enormously - pissed with himself. This is still Mikey, he told himself firmly. He raised his eyes to those of his musings, not wanting to look at his, um, nicely displayed tummy for too long.  
  
"Takes more than one session of ODing on chocolate to get a potbelly. Besides, you know I can eat practically anything I want and never gain an ounce. You on the other hand...." Michael mimicked Brian's earlier action, licking the mousse from each finger with a triumphant smile, but not before sticking a pink tongue out at Brian.  
  
Brian's mouth had suddenly gone dry. "Okay, I get the point." He reached for his bottle of water. _Anything_ to momentarily divert him from his best friend. "Looks as though the Professor's tutelage has some beneficial side effects."  
  
"Mmmhmm. He really knows how to get a thorough workout....and in more ways than one, might I add." Michael wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as he used his tongue to clean his fork of any chocolate remnants.  
  
Brian had a sudden, unexplainable urge to change the subject. "This is nice," he said, looking directly at Michael, giving him what he knew was a 'tender, thoughtful smile' - the smile he reserved for Michael, and Michael alone.  
  
"Yeah. This recipe is definitely a keeper. Uncle Vic's gonna have to make one for Hunter and Ben - they'd love it."  
  
Brian rolled his eyes and sighed. Somehow, everything these days always came back to Michael's happy little family home, and he wasn't too proud to admit - to himself, of course - that it made him just a little peeved. Whenever he and Michael spent time alone, he made a point to never talk about Justin, unless Michael asked - which he very rarely did - or unless he truthfully had a problem that he was willing to discuss with him. When he did get quality time with Michael, which these days - between their busy lives and respective partners - was not very often, the last thing he wanted to do was waste it on boyfriend discussion or turn it into a Dr.Phil episode. Didn't Michael feel the same?  
  
"Not that, Captain Clueless. This. Just you and me." His voice was soft, encouraging. He wanted Michael to know he was sincere; too many times in the past he had failed to make clear. Michael wasn't the only one changing.  
  
Michael moved from his spot across from Brian, who was sitting on the floor, back against the sofa, and positioned himself in front of Brian. He plopped down on his belly and rested his chin atop Brian's knee, gazing lovingly up into the intense hazel eyes. For a moment he wondered how many times they'd done this - ate a shitload of food, shared a bottle and a joint, joked, reminisced; always ending up sprawled peacefully in each others laps. Was it thousands? Didn't matter - he just fervently hoped it never stopped, no matter who they were with or what they they were doing. Some things should never change.  
  
"Yeah. Just us. The Dynamic Duo. You know I was just wondering, about how many times we've times done this. How many times this same scene has played out, in this very loft, this very spot."  
  
Brian shook his head at the sentimentality, and placed a hand on the back of Michael's neck. "Not even high and you still get all sentimental. Pathetic, Mikey."  
  
"Hey - you started it. And don't tell me you didn't think about it when you put this place up for sale."  
  
"Never gave it a single thought." There was more than a hint of sarcasm in his tone. He involuntarily stroked his fingers along the back of Michael's hair, his eyes and actions proving that Michael was, as usual, correct. He _had _thought about it. Almost as much as he thought about all the thousands of tricks he must've had in this place. The whole gay male population of Pittsburgh had probably walked beneath his doorway, to be fucked in his infamous bed. No small feat. But then, he thought haughtily, he _was_ Brian Kinney, Stud of Liberty Avenue.  
  
Michael gave him his patented 'yeah - right, I know you' look, and scooted up to sit on his knees and stare intently at Brian with a calculating gaze. Michael had a superpower - he just didn't realize it, although Brian did, and maybe one day he'd get around to telling him. He'd had it employed on his unsuspecting self countless occasions. Michael's round, amber eyes - when angered or concerned, specifically about the people he loved - could nearly burn a whole through you with their keenness. Hence, the reason Michael could pry things from Brian that no one else could touch.  
  
"What? You gonna give me the third degree like everyone else for deciding to sell MY loft?"  
  
"I'm not like everyone else. You know I support your decision - if not the reasoning behind it."  
  
"That it's time to move on?" He said smoothly, knowing that wasn't exactly why - but his curiosity begged to see Michael's reaction.  
  
Michael's eyebrows shot up. "I thought you were past the 'there's nothing here in the fucking Pitts' stage."  
  
"''Stage'? Who am I, Gus?"  
  
"Sometimes, your comparable. And don't avoid the subject."  
  
"There's no subject to discuss. I haven't made any definite decision. I never said I was going anywhere; just that I needed to move on. Doesn't always constitute a physical 'moving on', you know."  
  
Then why are you selling your loft, genius? Michael thought it but didn't say it. He didn't want to push the issue further, discerning that Brian did not want to talk about it, and to be honest, neither did he. He just wanted to enjoy the time they got together - alone, to momentarily forget their problems and shitty grown-up hassles and revert back to fifteen again. Young, wild....free.  
  
Brian's thoughts mirrored Michael's. He would never tell anyone - why give them any reason to _ever_ call him an emotional sap? - but being with Michael made him feel young. As fucking corny and trite as it sounded - he made him feel like a better person. It was as if Michael's boyish looks, youthful exuberance, and his innocent, childlike naivety permeated Brian's own cynical, cold-hearted outlook on life, somehow coupled and molded the two qualities together and created a perfect balance. Justin never made him feel like that. Sure, Justin used to make him feel youthful, but anymore he only succeeded in making him feel _old_. His constant geezer jokes were getting on the last of Brian's frayed nerves. Michael sometimes teased him about his age - but it was in an entirely different manner and only around Brian's birthday, like now. Similarly didn't feel the same with Justin as he initially had because he wasn't a wide-eyed, innocent kid anymore - some where along the way he had morphed into a sardonic, egotistical, miniature version of himself. And quite frankly it freaked him out - the fact that he saw so much of himself, that was never there before, in Justin.  
  
Yeah, Justin had definitely lost that youthful sweetness, Brian thought caustically, remembering their little power play of a few nights back - an incident which Brian had chose to sweep under the rug - casually dismiss. For now. Brian guessed that Justin had surmised along the way, as he matured, that he would look down on or become disinterested in anyone who didn't share his tough shit, fuck or get fucked techniques. He snorted inwardly. Justin obviously hadn't learned anything about the man Brian kept closest to his heart. So the lad was not a genius - not in the common sense department. He still marveled at how Michael was 32 and had not lost his selfless, innocent heart - and probably never would. Brian would see to that...safeguard it. He felt like an idiot for thinking he could find the qualities he loved in Michael so easily in others, much less thinking if he _did_ find them, they would actually last. He'd learnt several things from Justin, and one was that he'd never meet a another living human being like Michael, not that he wanted to - Michael was more than enough. But even though Justin was sometimes annoying as hell, especially as of late; the sex was still hot, and he still enjoyed his company for the most part. Besides, didn't everyone go through this sort of stage...he frowned at the word, mentally replacing it with _phase_ - when they were 19?  
  
He was brought from his reverie by a warm forehead touching his own. He leaned into the familiar sensation, his nose nuzzling against Michael's.  
  
"Promise me." Michael's whisper lightly caressed his cheek. He had a niggling feeling, perhaps an element of what he liked to secretly call his 'Mikey induced' sixth sense, that Michael was about to tell him something, and was unsure of the reaction he would receive. And he had to admit, he was quite popular for his harsh sincerity. The insight, however, barely even flickered across his consciousness before it fleeted.  
  
"Anything." Brian said, the solitary word flowing from his lips without the barest hint of hesitation. Any outsider privy to the words preceding his single statement would surely gasp in disbelief.  
  
Michael laughed a little. "That's going to get you into trouble one of these days." All Brian could see were full pink lips and pointed cuspids - and the view was rather nice.  
  
"You'd never abuse it." He playfully nudged Michael's forehead with his own, finally bringing his eyes up to search the brown irises of his best friend.  
  
"Just promise me, Brian, that no matter what happens or how we progress...or 'move on' in our lives, that we'll always be there for one another. That we'll never pass each other up. That we won't let anything come between us - no boyfriends, er, significant others," Brian snorted at the hideous expression, "career choices, meddling mothers, or, God forbid, evil chiropractors."  
  
The last two earned a good snicker from Brian, especially the last one, since he knew it was just added on to lighten the mood. Michael knew how profusely he loathed any shape, form or fashion of serious, heart to heart conversations that involved making commitments or asserting inner feelings. This was different, however. It was a reaffirmation of a long ago promise; one very close to the hearts of both men. And - that niggling feeling was back.  
  
"Well, _mothers _should be singular, since mine doesn't give a shit."  
  
"True, but then there's Justin's mom. She's over enough to qualify as a _mother-in-law, _don't you think?" Michael's grin was impish.  
  
"Michael - don't make me hurl." Brian closed his eyes, shutting out the barrage of mental images that featured the dreadful drop-ins Jennifer had been gracing him with lately. Or the time she had came to his office and practically appointed him Justin's surrogate parent, telling him to make certain he took his vitamins, brushed his teeth, and had lights out by ten. She was a nice lady, but a tad overbearing at times. An involuntary shudder ran through him, and he opened his eyes, meeting Michael's serious gaze. Brian knew Michael didn't expect the words, which caused him to reflect on how Justin always wanted words. He was reminded of how nice it was to be with Michael and know that he knew the words were there, but that they were communicated through actions.  
  
He nodded slightly, knowing Michael could feel it through their connected foreheads, and lifted his right hand to rest at the nape of Michael's neck.  
  
"Why now?" He wanted to know what had caused Michael to need this sudden reassurance of a promise they'd made a very long time ago. Was Michael afraid he was going to move away? Was something going on with the Nutty Professor?  
  
"Just 'cause." Michael worried at his bottom lip. "I mean...we both seem to be moving in different directions. You with Justin, me with Ben. Who knows what kind of job offer you'll get or where it could lead you, and for me - and Justin - there's Rage. Who knows what could come of the offer we've received. This is the first time in almost two weeks that we've actually spent some time together, had a conversation. I just like to know that even though our futures are uncertain, there is one thing that will _always_ stay the same. Know what I mean?"  
  
Oh, Brian knew - it was what kept him anchored, especially throughout the last few tumultuous months. He also realized that Michael was subtly saying 'let's not resent each other for having separate lives'. Because for a long time, they _had_ been each other's lives, in every way but sexually. Michael was trying, in his ever selfless way, to reassure not only himself but more importantly Brian, that even though he had a boyfriend, a foster child, and had a baby on the way; things would never change between them.  
  
"Yeah. Got ya." Brian put on his practiced air of indifference, knowing that the small kiss to Michael's nose and the gentle squeeze to the back of his neck said what he could not.  
  
"So. Shouldn't we like, seal it somehow? You remember that blood-oath we took on your 18th birthday?" Michael face was alight with the fondness of old memories. So many memories...  
  
Brian remembered, too. Very well, in fact. It was among one of the many times he'd almost given in and had sex with his best friend. "Christ, Mikey, don't you think we're a little ol--- never mind."  
  
Michael's eyes sparkled. "Forever young and beautiful, right?"  
  
"Forever." Brian leaned in, closing the inch of space between their moist lips, unable to resist the laughter and pure brilliance radiating from Michael's smile. He captured Michael's lips with his own, gently sucking, not letting go...but holding on, stretching it out longer than he usually allowed himself, or more precisely - trusted himself. His tongue slowly traced the inside of his lower lip, requesting entrance that he knew would eagerly be granted. He barely heard Michael's sharp inhale, blatantly startled from the intensity with which he kissed him.  
  
It was a slow and gentle mesh of lips, underlined with barely constrained fervor. Brian was overcome the with the distinct taste of Michael mingled with chocolate - realizing that he'd never tasted Michael and chocolate before, or if he had, he didn't remember it being quite so erotic. It was usually Michael and pot or Michael and beer. He could easily become addicted to this sensation, this taste. Damn, he thought, and he didn't even like chocolate that fucking much.  
  
Michael's hand had migrated to twine around the lush silk of his hair, while Brian's thumb caressed the delicate curve of Michael's jawline. He didn't know where his other hand had wandered too, and decided it didn't matter, as dawning realization coursed through his body, catching up with the white hot, piquent desire that had so violently flooded his veins. This was gonna have to stop - fuck!(indeed) but he didn't want it too! - or he was going to end up fucking his off-limits, best-friend-who-has-a-loving-boyfriend right here on the floor. He couldn't do this, couldn't balance out the sensible from the visceral.  
  
Michael was his downfall, his weak seam....he just hoped he could be his savior, too.  
  
But then, he always was, and always had been.

* * *

Michael was overwhelmed - he couldn't do this. Couldn't be kissing Brian like this, breathlessly immersed in his touch, his taste. His heart (or was it his dick?) was telling him it was exactly what he _could_ do, wanted to do. But Christ - not when he was about to say that...that..dammit! Why did Brian always have to do this to him? Make him doubt everything he had developed with Ben?  
  
They hadn't kissed with such passion in a long time. Too long. Michael had convinced himself, and others it seemed, that he was officially over Brian Kinney. The current situation was quickly sending that conviction to hell. He loved Ben. He loved Brian. But not in the same way. Which was it, though...he didn't love Brian in the same way he loved Ben, or he didn't love Ben in the same way he loved Brain? Anger flared briefly - at himself and Brian - over the fact that one kiss could send his heart into a such a frantic tailspin. Was he making a mistake? On _both_ sides? Was there _anything_ in his life he could be certain of? _That you love Brian more than you'll ever love anyone...always have, alwa... SHUT UP!  
  
_Michael's inner battle was interrupted by the tingling sensation of Brian's cold hand making contact with the warm skin of his side. Brian had deftly slid a hand up the corner of his tee-shirt to lie on the soft, bare skin. He sometimes did that whenever a kiss between them turned frenzied, as if he needed the reassurance that Michael was there, that it was real.  
  
Instinct took over, and Michael broke from the kiss, but kept his forehead against Brian's. They were both breathing heavily, each lost in the lingering pleasure of overloaded senses. Brian's eyes remained blissfully closed.  
  
Mere seconds after his lips slipped from Brian's, Michael's brain floated back to him from wherever it had trotted off to. And he realized: _of course_ - Brian had kissed him as a way of saying he would keep his promise, that it meant as much as it did to him as it did Michael. Communication without words - Brian's forte. It was a kiss of mutual recognition, of gratitude.  
  
Brian had kissed him like that because he loved him, not because he was suddenly _in_ love with him. Michael groaned inwardly at his panicked, illogical syllogisms of a few seconds ago. Sometimes he felt _so_ mature.  
  
He knew Brian loved Justin; was probably in love with him. He'd seen them together. Heard practically everyone he knew gush about how hopelessly in love they were - which grated his nerves, only because he knew Brian would not appreciate people defining his relationship so lavishly. Didn't help that Justin fueled the fire every chance he got.  
  
He had no problem admitting that he had been jealous of Justin and Brian at one point and time. It was what happened when you were in love with your unattainable best friend, and suddenly a teenaged, recurring twink somehow wins him over. Now, 2 years on down the road, he could honestly admit that, even though it was the most fucked up relationship he'd ever seen in his life, he was happy for them. Wanted them to be happy. Besides, Justin seemed to take care of Brian - if no one else - and that's all Michael could really ask for. Brian didn't share with him the inner details of his and Justin's relationship - so Michael couldn't really tell whether or not they actually _were_ happy. All outward appearances seemed to verify it, though.  
  
"Mikey?"  
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
"Your cell phone's ringin'."  
  
"Oh. Probably Ma. Ben and I are supposed go over for dinner tonight." Reluctantly, Michael disentangled himself from Brian's warmth and scooted over to the opposite side of the coffee table, where he'd plopped down the food and his cell phone almost an hour ago. He glanced at the LCD screen.  
  
"Ma." The word came out as a sigh. Christ, but the women just wouldn't leave him alone these days. Especially now. Michael threaded his hands together and tossed them behind his head, toppling over onto his back, knees up.  
  
"Aren't you going to answer it?"  
  
_And get diverted again from my reason for coming over here? _"No. It's the fifth time today that she's called."  
  
"I thought you'd narrowed it down to three."  
  
"Yeah, well, that was before...." Here goes.  
  
"Before Vic moved out and she had someone else to harrow?"  
  
"Ben asked me to marry him."  
  
Brian went still, but the hazel eyes betrayed nothing. He reached for a joint, lit it, inhaling greedily. Minutes passed, but still he remained silent, his attention focused solely on the joint as if it were suddenly the most captivating thing he'd ever seen.  
  
Michael sat up, Indian style, and studied his friend. There were very few times he could remember ever being unable to read Brian - this was one of those very few times.  
  
"Well, I -"  
  
"What do want me to do, Michael? Gush and fawn and go ape shit like some histrionic lesbian?"  
  
Jesus. He wasn't expecting the snark. "No, my mother's filling that position nicely, thanks. And she's not even a lesbian."  
  
Brian offered Michael a drag, making an effort to avoid quizzical brown eyes. Michael shook his head 'no' at the offer and watched as Brian shrugged, placed the joint between his kiss swollen lips and leaned his head back, exhaling a perfect smoke ring.  
  
_Mmmmmkay. This is going well. _Michael wondered if there was any significance in the severe extremes of the two people he had known his whole life. One had hyperventilated, the other, passed it off as if Michael had told him he'd stepped in dog shit on his way over. He probably would have shown more enthusiasm for the latter.  
  
Brian jerked his head down abruptly, looking directly at Michael for the first time since Michael's announcement.  
  
"So. Did he ask you amidst the throes of orgasm or over a romantic, candlelight dinner?" Brian's voice was soft, inflected with mock sugary sweetness, and Michael smiled knowingly.  
  
"Actually, neither. But you don't give a fuck about that - don't you want to know how I answered?"  
  
Brian looked like he'd rather drown in his bottle of Beam - and proceeded to do just that, taking a long, agitated guzzle. Michael raised his eyebrows, seeking to prompt a response.  
  
"I'm all ears. You, of course, are well aware of my ethical standings concerning 'marriage'. I know how you _should_ answer. How every fag in his right mind should answer."  
  
"I've already answered. I said yes. And I guess I'm just one fag out of his right mind, then."  
  
Brian seemed to agree, if the disgusted expression was any indication. Relieving one hand of joint and the other of Beam, he shook his head plaintively, the movement freeing a shock of hair - almost russet-toned in the gentle streams of flaxen light that signaled approaching dusk - and Michael couldn't help but lift a soothing hand to sweep the gel curled locks from his forehead.  
  
"Not everyone upholds your standards, you know."  
  
Brian took Michael's hand from his forehead, placing his fingers atop Michael's and guiding the cool fingers lightly down the side of his face, to eventually clasp them firmly within his own shaky hand - and he prayed Michael wouldn't notice that little detail - and pulled Michael to him, resting his chin on Michael's shoulder and wreathing his arms around the complacent torso. This way, Michael couldn't see his eyes. And maybe, some of Michael's calm would leak into his own tremulous soul.  
  
"I know. Your the only person I can think of that deserves that type of commitment, that could actually make it something real and not just a fuckin' meaningless piece of paper. And if it's what you want, well..."  
  
Michael was taken aback by the drastic change of Brian's tone, finding himself grasping for the rights words to say, without engaging in a political debate that would serve only to camouflage the true issues at hand.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
He felt Brian's arms slightly tense around him - it was barely perceptible and he'd probably imagined it. He was slightly drunk by now after all, he supposed.  
  
"I thought you said you said yes?"  
  
"I did - but I'd hardly be human if I could say I don't have _any_ doubts about it. You know - the kind you get _after_ you've agreed to something and you've had some time to think about it."  
  
"You mean dwell on it - and no, I never have those."  
  
"Once again, not everyone is Brian Kinney."  
  
"The wonderful thing about Kinney's is IIIIII'mmmm....the only one." He did such a good Tigger impersonation that Michael giggled, and Brian savored the way he could feel it vibrate through his own body.  
  
"You've been watching Winnie the Pooh with Gus again, haven't you?"  
  
"Yep. And I've come to the conclusive conclusion that Winnie the Pooh, ladies and gentlemen, is gay. I hear the next episode involves raunchy, sweaty, gratuitous bear sex."  
  
Michael lifted the hand that wasn't knitted with Brian's and covered his eyes. "Must you corrupt everything?"  
  
"It's my job." Brian turned his head ever so slightly and pressed a delicate kiss to the tender flesh of Michael's neck. Inhaling. Tasting...and internally breaking. Michael was slipping through his fingers like sand. Hardly any time spent together for months, and now..._this_.  
  
Several minutes of companionable silence followed, each of them content to simply bask in the other's presence, digesting the words that had been spoken - Michael trying to discern just exactly what his friend _really_ thought of the whole of the deal - whether or not he was hurt by the fact that Michael had made a decision without telling him first - and Brian trying to figure out why the fuck this was so hard - and not in the good sense of the word.  
  
"Does he make you happy?"  
  
Michael snorted. "Who, Pooh? Are you high?"  
  
"No to both. Ben. Does he make you happy?" Brian's voice sounded almost desperate.  
  
"Of course. I wouldn't still be with him if he didn't. He's the most amazing man I've ever been with, Brian, and I couldn't ask for more."  
  
Brian knew Michael meant the words 'been with' in a sexual/relationship manner, but it still clawed at his heart. Almost as much as 'couldn't ask for more'.  
  
"Then that's all that really matters. If he makes you happy, Mikey, then..." Fuck. _As long as Mikey's happy. _He couldn't fall back on the familiar maxim, because it was no longer true. He was happy as long as Mikey was happy but the catch was...._with him_. Brian Kinney. In love with him, not someone else; was with someone who was good to him, but who did not threaten their bond and was merely temporary.  
  
"...then...it makes you happy? So your okay with it?" Michael's voice was tentative as he finished Brian's thought, peering up at him from his cozy position with pensive eyes.  
  
"This isn't about me, asshole - it's about _you_. Don't put yourself in some fucked up hetero-bull shit if it's not worth it to you. 'Cause if you do, in the end, you'll come whining to me and I've got better things to do than say 'I told you so'."  
  
He hadn't meant for his words to come out quite so harsh, but he couldn't risk Michael seeing behind his carefully guarded emotions if even for a second.  
  
Right now, he just needed for Michael to be as far away from him as possible. So he could have a true Rage moment and drink and throw things and scream out the agony of his heart in solitude.  
  
Because his suspicions - no, more than just fucking suspicions, he realized; his most horrifying, insanity inducing fear - had just been realized.  
  
Michael wasn't in love with him anymore.  
  
He'd moved on.  
  
Stopped waiting.  
  
And found something Brian could never give him, wasn't good enough to give him. Not like Ben was. Why wait for someone like Brian? Someone who supposedly detested love and all its subsequent attachments?  
  
But it didn't make the ache any easier to bear, knowing that Michael had found contentment with Ben. It only made it worse.  
  
"You're mad, aren't you?"  
  
He unraveled himself from Michael, pretending to stretch. He couldn't be touching him right now. Couldn't be so close, yet so far.  
  
"Now why the fuck would I be mad?" He made sure his tone was softer, less equivocal. It took every bit of his considerable acting talent he could muster. Michael was perceptive. But ironically so, not perceptive enough when it came to his best friend's true feelings about him. Brian mused that he couldn't hate that tired old adage any more than he did now - the 'love is blind' shit.  
  
"That I didn't tell you first? That I told Em, Ma, Ted, Justin, Vic - practically everyone I know and even some people I don't - before I told you?"  
  
_JUSTIN? Justin knows? _That little tidbit did piss him off, though he had no idea _why_ it did - and he wasn't about to ask himself - he'd had enough Oprah for one day.  
  
"Michael, what you do with your life and any decision you might make is entirely up to you. And you know how I feel - 'no apologies, no regrets'." Christ - he'd never hated his _own_ tired old adage any more than he did now.  
  
Because it was the perfect antithesis of the truth, and Brian Kinney loathed the concept of lying. How paradoxical that he'd been lying for 20 years.  
  
"Nice to know some things never change." Michael flashed a smile, obviously pleased with Brian's response.  
  
Brian had never been so pissed at himself in his life. For saying what he did, for feeling what he did, and for having abso-fucking-lutely no control over it. Brian Kinney was always in control. He was once again reminded, as he gracefully bounded to his feet, that Michael was his downfall.  
  
He headed towards the the kitchen, to make sure there were _plenty_ of drugs in the fridge. He'd need them later.  
  
He flinched when he heard the shrill ring of Michael's cell phone, but smoothly covered it up by running a hand through his hair.  
  
"Damn phone," Michael cursed, as he scooted on his belly the few inches to reach his phone. If his expression was any indication, it was most certainly Debbie.  
  
Brian couldn't remember ever being so thankful for a complimentary Debbie interruption. He nabbed a beer, and watched Michael out of the corner of his eyes as he flipped his phone open. Michael didn't speak for a full minute.  
  
"Ma...Ma...**MA**. Yes. No. I'm at Brian's, Ma. It's reeealllly none of your business, Ma." Michael had propped himself up on his elbows, watching from across the room as Brian stood with fridge door open for way too long, and made a 'jabber mouth' motion with his hand as soon as he caught Brian's eye. Brian wiggled his finger back and forth in a 'shame on you' pantomime as he popped the cap off his beer. He was finished with more than half by the time Michael ended his phone conversation.  
  
"Yeah. We'll be there. Mmmhmm. His classes end at 5:30. YES. Bye Ma." Michael flipped his phone shut and collapsed face first into the carpet rug.  
  
"My mom is driving me fucking nuts." His voice was muffled, but still carried across the loft.  
  
"Don't be such a drama queen. I think its rather funny, actually."  
  
Michael didn't raise his head, but gave Brian a good, solid finger - the middle one.  
  
Brian studied the raven head. Wishing...not for the first time, that Michael didn't have to leave. That Justin didn''t have to come home. That he wasn't such a fucking coward. That he could, for once in his life, take the risk. Brian Kinney loved taking risks - the dirtier the better. Not true if it involved his Mikey.  
  
Michael straightened up with a sigh, shoving his phone into the back pocket of his Levi's. He walked over to the kitchen, to Brian, who was pretending to be engrossed in some random papers that were strewn about the lower end of the counter. Some sort of art stuff of Justin's, he observed absently.  
  
"Beer?" Brian didn't look up as spoke.  
  
Michael placed a hand on Brian's shoulder. "Nah. I gotta get out of here. We have to be at my Ma's at 6:30. I have some things to do before then."  
  
"Dress shopping with Emmett? Already?"  
  
Michael leaned down to Brian's ear, a sly grin gracing his features, laughter filling his dark eyes. "Asshole," he whispered into the curve of Brian's ear, proceeding to give the lobe a quick little bite - his parting gesture.  
  
Brian had to stop himself from leaning into the delectable pressure, encouraging more. But Michael's lips and teeth were gone before he could follow that dangerous thought to completion.

Michael's presence hadn't caused thoughts like _these_ in a while.  
  
Michael turned to leave, had his hand on the loft door when Brian's gentle voice pierced the silence, halting his thoughts.  
  
"Mikey."  
  
He turned, meeting that beloved hazel gaze, feeling all of its warmth and unconditional love and something...something more that Michael couldn't quite pinpoint. He wasn't sure he wanted to.  
  
Brian's eyes searched Michael's urgently. Nothing was spoken for several seconds, a hair too long for either of them to feel comfortable. The air was charged with a tangible electricity, crackling and sparking - but years of practice and better judgement caused both men to ignore the hot pink elephant in the room.  
  
"I'm happy for you."  
  
Brian didn't smile as he said it. Michael didn't smile as he heard it.  
  
Why were they both unable to believe it?  
  
And then Michael was gone, and Brian stared at the door. He stared at it until Justin came through, a giddy bounce in his youthful step.  
  
"Hey. Met Michael on my way up. Did he tell you?"  
  
Brian gritted his teeth. He did _not_ want to discuss anything - particularly this - with Justin at the moment.  
  
"Mmhm. Surprise, surprise."  
  
Brian grinned for all the wrong reasons at the mental image his own words conjured up. Had he not held back, had he not been so fucking scared by the unaffordable risk of it all - that is, doing what his heart and body was telling him to do - Justin would have walked in to quite a surprise himself - him fucking Michael right there on the kitchen counter.  
  
"Almost..." Justin dug around in his backpack, his grin never faltering, bolstered by his misinterpretation of Brian's lascivious smirk, "...as great a surprise as _this_."  
  
Brian mentally rolled his eyeballs...Christ...if he pulled out another - fuck. Justin stuck his arm out to dangle a thick bundle of stapled notebook paper inches from Brian's face. A '95' was scrawled across the heading in bold, red ink.  
  
Everytime he made a high grade on an essay, he would frolic to the loft and stuff it in Brian's face, like a third grader eager to show his good grade to daddy, anxious to receive a stout pat on the back, or, in this situation - a stout pat on the ass. Fact was, Justin was dangerously toeing the line of flagrant arrogance - not that he was anyone to talk, however, but it was not one of the qualities that had initially drawn him to the younger man.  
  
Brian shuddered. He was _not_ going to think about that, either. Or how the term 'sugar daddy' was going to haunt him for a while.  
  
He snatched the papers out the air, replacing them with his face and leaning in close to Justin's.  
  
"Then let's celebrate." He grabbed Justin's hand, dragging him towards the bedroom. Justin followed like the faithful aficionado that he was, stumbling along behind, grin still plastered in place.  
  
"Didn't know you'd be _this _pleased."  
  
Along with his modesty, Justin's perceptiveness seemed to have fell off the turnip truck as well. The lad may be able to score a 95 on a thesis and a hot trick in the backroom, but that was about the extent of his endeavors.  
  
Brian figured he'd better stop thinking about it or else his dick would get soft. Right now he just wanted to fuck his brains out, and Justin was available, so time to commence in a session of good, strong pain management.  
  
Although he doubted the pain would ever go away.  
  
He had never felt pain such as this.  
  
_TBC.....  
_


	2. Chapter Two

**Be My Downfall**

(see chapt. 1 for warnings, disclaimer, etc.)

Author's Note : A huge, warm hug for everyone who gave me feedback. You guys are the best.

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

For the next couple of weeks, Brian submersed himself in one of the two things he knew best, his work - or, at the moment, his lack thereof. Even he couldn't afford to remain unemployed for long. He also submersed himself in large quantities of alcohol, for it seemed to do the trick better than tricks - so most nights it was just him, and his partner Jimmy Beam.

_And I drank alone. Yeah, with nobody else...._

If he couldn't get that fucking song out of his head, he'd....

He didn't know what he'd do. About anything. So, why not just lay here in bed, and drink some more - but he was **not **going to cry anymore like some little heartbroken fag. Why humiliate himself..it wouldn't take away the fact that...no, he wasn't going to think about that.

The fact that he was in love with Michael.

Had been since that breezy, sunny August day in 1984.

He didn't want to be in the Pitts anymore - or anywhere in the whole state, for that matter. Because that would mean seeing Michael. Or rather, Michael and Ben. The happy couple. It was exactly why he was not at Babylon at the moment, fucking his brains out as usual. They would be there. Michael would be there, glowing with a pure, utter contentment that Ben had put there. Not Brian.

He hadn't talked much with Michael since that day in the loft. Or, to be precise, he had avoided Michael. He knew he couldn't trust himself around him, that he might say something - or more dangerously - do something to fuck it up, which would only result in his and Michael's relationship getting fucked up. It was too late for those techniques - the ones he had so aptly displayed when Dr. Dave joined the show uninvited - because he knew Michael wouldn't run to him anymore. Wouldn't allow Brian to mess up what he'd created with Ben. Because he truly was in love with Ben.

Michael was never in love with David. Brian would have known if he was - and caught it, stopped it. Proceeded to wedge himself firmly between them, once and for all. So why hadn't he sensed it with Ben, and used the same methods he would have with Dave?

He'd been too busy creating the illusion that he was so hopelessly in love with Justin. And Justin had took every opportunity to proclaim their 'true love' to entirely the wrong people. They might have an 'open relationship', but the key was that 'open' did not include telling every Joe you know how perfect your relationship was. He knew there was a reason he'd told the little twat to spend the night at Daphe's.

Brian buried his head deeper into his pillow, wishing the bed would just swallow him up and end this self-induced torment. It dawned on him, just as a single, hot tear trailed down his cheek; that he hadn't cried since his father passed away.

He clutched the edge of the pillow tighter, his knuckles turning white. It had been Michael's shoulder that he'd cried on that night. Michael's warmth and strength that he'd clung to. Since he was 14, he had allowed himself to cry only in Michael's arms and presence - making this the first time he'd cried without him there to hold him, to soothe him as no one else could.

Another tear snaked from his eyes before he slowly closed them. Regret, longing, confusion, anger, fear, uncertainty - these were simply too many emotions to be feeling at once, especially for a man who believed that having no emotions was the best possible way to exist. Listen to me, he thought. I sound like fucking Yoda.

Brian felt a crisp tug on his heart as he thought of all the times he'd rejected Michael, turned him down, simply because Brian had allowed himself to lose his reality and find himself in a dream, giving Michael the wrong impression. Or the right one. Fuck if Brian knew right now. Because of his apparent lack of reason, nowadays, Michael pulled away even from lingering kisses. He thought Brian was playing with him, that he didn't truly love him. And even though Brian was entirely responsible for putting those very assumptions in Michael's head, he still felt a wave of poignant anger towards him, for ever even thinking that.

"Michael....why...?"

Brian winced at the hollow sound of his choked whisper. He really was a selfish prick. It was petulant, stupid, and childish to blame any of this on Michael. Just a few years ago, if Brian had wanted Michael, he would have unquestionably been his. But as Michael had said himself that chilly October day of mere weeks ago; they were both changing. Progressing.

In complete, opposite fucking directions.

Brian rolled over, still grasping the pillow to his body, imagining that it could be Michael instead of a sack full of feather's from a Goose's ass. His eyes were drawn against his will to the small, framed photo of himself and Michael that sat on his dresser. He rolled back over.

His mind played over that day - the day he realized Michael was no longer in love with him - for what seemed the zillionth time. That day had been the catalyst for his deeply hidden feelings. He remembered the way Michael had broke their kiss, stopped what Brian had so blatantly started. Remembered how he was to fucking scared to stop Michael from leaving the loft without saying what his heart was silently screaming but his mind was vehemently denying. He had even, to his waking horror, dreamed of that day every night since it happened; and it always ended the same. Michael hadn't broke the kiss, and he hadn't left the loft to return to Ben's arms. Or to arms other than Brian's. Ever again.

But that was only his dream.

And this was only his reality. A shitty one, to be sure.

Michael would be leaving for Massachusetts in a matter of days. He would be gone for three weeks...or so Brian had heard. Not that he'd talked to Michael any, and not that Michael hadn't tried to talk to him. He'd probably just figured that he was depressed over loosing his job, and from the possibility that Justin would be moving to LA for the Rage deal; and given Brian his space.

_Wrong again, Mikey. Just like you were wrong that time you found me trying to kill myself._

He couldn't let Michael leave without saying something to him. It would hurt him, confuse him, and raise suspicions. Michael possessed a sixth sense about Brian, too.

So he would give his best friend a wedding gift - in full, unabashed, Brian Kinney fashion.

* * *

The next morning, Justin busted into the loft at full speed. Uninvited, of course. Grrreat. Just what Brian needed to assuage his massive hangover.

Justin took one look and his eyes widened.

"Christ! What happened to you?" At Brian's silence, he decided to just forget it. Wasn't important now anyways.

"Well, we finally came to a decision. I'm moving."

Brian didn't look up from his paperwork. Paperwork that involved selling the loft. "Where," he queried, his tone detached; and in Justin's opinion - quite _rude_. He rolled his eyes at Brian's feigned ignorance. He knew damn well 'where'. They'd talked about it, but now he knew for sure. Didn't he care? The love of his life was moving away. Shouldn't he have more to say about it than one fucking word? He crossed his arms in a pout, angling his hip in comically childish gesture.

"Somewhere larger than life, vast and surreal, where stars revolve around you and-"

"Uranus?"

"Better. **Hollywood**. One of us has to be in LA, to finish up the formalities of the deal, be available for various purposes, oversee some of the finer details - that sorta thing. Michael and I already know the plot we want, so there's really no reason for both of us to go. I figured I'm the best candidate, anyways."

At that, Brian did look up. It was more akin to a glare, however.

"Because he's getting married, I mean. He has a family to think about. Plus, from the schedule that Brett gave us, it looks like the dates are gonna conflict with his honeymoon."

"Going to Massachusetts to get married is not exactly a honeymoon."

"He told me they were staying in Boston for a few weeks, making a vacation out of it. Sounds like a 'honeymoon' to me."

"Whatever."

"But anyhow...any work or issue that needs to be discussed between us can be done over the phone, or the net. So on the 6th - I'm outta here. Michael will have been gone a week, so there's no way he could go. His trip with Ben is more important than getting rich and living in LA, obviously." Justin didn't try to hide his disagreement with Michael's decision.

Justin studied the man in front of him. He was no less of an enigma to him then the night they'd met. He didn't know whether to beat him at his own game, or stomp out of the loft in huff. He had a feeling he couldn't accomplish #1, and that #2 would accomplish nothing.

"You've been acting rather strange lately."

"Unemployment will do that to man." Brian allowed a sarcastic laugh to underline his words.

"You know, Brian....you could come with me. I bet there are hundreds of agencies in LA that would hire you in a heartbeat...I mean, you'd fit right in - living, working, fucking - in an environment like that. Think of all the hot men! Think of how rich I'm gonna be."

Yeah. At least that would relinquish Brian from the sugar daddy role. Big consolation.

"You already have several people who are interested in the loft...."

"Justin...I can't."

Brian couldn't look at the disappointment that crossed the young face. He'd dashed the poor kid's dreams with three words. Surely Justin hadn't thought, all this time, that Brian was planning to go with him?

"I'm sorry."

Justin was silent for several minutes, his face expressionless, but Brian knew the kind of damage he'd caused.

He was rather good at that, he thought, wincing at the desolation in Justin's eyes.

"Sure. I mean, it's not like I'm never coming back here. It's just temporary. I just thought that since you lost your job, put the loft up for sale, and because Michael-"

"Don't...Justin. Just don't." Brian stood up from the table, walking over to Justin.

"When I said I was sorry, I meant it. I don't hand those out lightly, you know."

Justin stared at the floor. Brian enveloped him in his arms, feeling like a total heel. Justin was selfish and over-confident to think that Brian could just pack up and go because he was, that Brian's life revolved around him. But Brian still felt responsible somehow, and there wasn't a doubt in his mind that certain others would think so, too.

He couldn't wait for the flak he was going to get over this. When Debbie found out the first thing he was going to do was bolt the door.

Brian made sure his voice was gentle. "Now go. You've got plans to make. Hollywood's waiting."

Justin didn't smile, or say a single word as he exited the loft. Brian let out a breath de didn't know he'd been holding.

That hadn't been so bad.

He turned, surveying his loft, wondering how much longer it would be his. He didn't know what he was going to do, about the loft, his job....

All he knew was that tonight was the night. Enough sulking, enough moping....

Time to take what he wanted - needed. What was rightfully his.

* * *

It was a busy Friday night. Babylon was a myriad of sensual, writhing bodies that glistened with sweat and beckoned wanton temptations. Multi-colored flashes of light dazzled the eyes and quick, bass driven tunes fueled the adrenaline and resonated in one's ears to eventually create a rhythm, a balmy hum. A feast for the senses, the dance floor was flooded and the crowd was hot.

The group of friends gathered at the bar weren't interested in this, however. Not tonight. Tonight was about friendship, remembering, and celebrating a union which signified the merging of two lives as one.

And they were all certainly dressed for the occasion - particularly the most flamboyant of the group - Emmett Honeycutt. His motto for the night appeared to undeniably be along the lines of 'think pink'. Donned from head to toe in soft pink, he made quite the fashion statement, even more so when you took into consideration the attire of his body accessory, Ted Schdmit. Ted's attire was the polar opposite of his boyfriend's - a faded, button-up brown shirt, and faded, brown jeans reflected his personality and general mood for the evening. Emmett would be the first to admit that they definitely clashed.

Ben and Michael, on the other hand, fit together beautifully, in every possible form; from the way Michael melted into the crook of Ben's strong arm to the way their matching black jeans and tees displayed each of their eye-catching attributes. Needless to say, the couple drew more than a few wistful glances, and dozens of admiring ones.

Michael only wished that he felt as good as people kept telling him he looked. It was as if getting married suddenly made you the most cheerful, beautiful person in the world, even if you weren't exactly feeling that way. Or maybe it was because people knew why he was a little gloomy, and were choosing to ignore it, like always.

Brian had been avoiding him. He didn't return his calls and was always too busy for any plans he might suggest. The most he ever saw of him was during hurried breakfast's at the diner, or on the way out or in of Babylon, or at Woody's - but Brian was already on his way out before Michael could even approach him. All the times he had seen his friend long enough to examine him, what he saw - and what he didn't see - frightened him. Terribly.

It was obvious that Brian was taking his fall at the agency badly, coupled with the pending probability of Justin moving away. Two things Brian had found stable in his life were being yanked out from under him like a bathroom rug. Michael thought he was taking the fall on the ass pretty well actually, until these past few weeks.

He couldn't remember (well, he could, but the point was that it had been too long) the last time Brian had looked him directly in the eyes. Or wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Or given him a 'hello'/'bye' kiss. Michael missed them - missed all of it. He had wondered for a short time if he had done or said something to upset Brian, but further inspection had brought Michael to the conclusion that Brian was simply overwhelmed by the reality of losing both his job and Justin in a relatively small span of time. Brian didn't have a whole lot of reasons to stay in the Pitts, and that scared Michael shitless. He'd told him numerous times that he wasn't going anywhere, but then Michael thought of the ad for the loft and a terrible ache grew in the pit of his stomach. Brian had took him along to look at some apartments - nice ones, but smaller - a few months ago, but had shown no down-to-business interest.

Michael was eager to console Brian, to talk to him about it, but held back when Brian distanced himself. It wasn't Michael's place anymore, it was Justin's, he realized. He wouldn't barge in a la Debbie style, but he would be there immediately - the very second Brian said he needed him. It hurt, very, very, much, however, that Brian had evaded him thus far. As if he had took Michael's little 'moving on' speech far too seriously that day.

Right now, he had too many other things on his mind and too many people watching to overtly mull over Brian. Or exactly why that kiss of a few weeks ago in the loft had resurrected long-past Brian dreams. Nope, definitely not gonna think about that right now. He felt Ben's arm shift slightly around him and guilt immediately rushed through his body, causing him to grimace.

"You all right, baby?"

"Never been better." He leaned forward slightly on his toes and pressed a light kiss to Ben's lips.

"Gentleman - I propose a toast." Somehow, Emmett's clothes made his mimicked British accent extremely hilarious. His tone grew serious, and clearing his throat, he continued, raising his glass. "To my best friend, my confidant, and in many ways - the big brother I never had, Michael Novotny. And to his charming, loving boyfriend - soon-to-be husband - who I trust will give him the happiness he deserves; Ben Bruckner. Congratulations boys - here's to you. Cheers!"

Glasses were clinked, downed, and refilled.

"Thanks, Em." Michael extricated himself from Ben to give his friend a peck on the check. He didn't have to worry about showing how much Em's statement meant to him, everyone knew the two were like brothers.

"Don't mention it, sweetie. You know I had to get together a little somethin' for your last official trip to Babylon as a bachelor."

Michael laughed. "I'll still come here, you know. Not much will change."

"Honey - everything will change."

Before Michael could ask him how he would know, since he'd never been married, or just exactly what he meant, Emmett turned to drag a protesting Ted out onto the dance floor. He mouthed a 'help' in Michael's direction, who simply gave him a teasing little 'have fun!' wave.

Strong arms wrapped around him from behind, smoothed over his taut stomach.

"Mmmm...you are just too damn hot tonight. I have this overwhelming urge to get you home **right** **now**...." Ben buried his face in the curve of Michael's neck, leaving the invitation seductively open.

"I'd gladly oblige, but we just got here, and Emmett had planned for this to kind of be a 'boys night out' thing before we leave. For old times sake."

"I'm surprised you'd even consider it such...without Brian here."

Michael tensed. Surely to God his overactive imagination had just imagined the sarcastic lilt in Ben's tone when he'd said Brian's name. Of course he had - the notion was ridiculous. But no harm in making sure.

"True, it just doesn't seem like old times without Brian here to fuck the whole the place."

"So where is he tonight? Not like him to skip a Friday at Babylon."

See? There. He'd simply been imagining things. Weekly conversations with a famous Hollywood director could do that to the mind of a simple gay boy, he mused.

Michael shrugged. "Not sure. Just said he had plans tonight."

"He's not the only one who has plans..." Ben nipped lightly at Michael's neck, encouraging Michael to wriggle from his arms, turn to face him, and pull him backwards onto the dance floor with what could only be defined as a very sexy smirk. Was it strange that he didn't want Ben all over him whilst discussing Brian?

Thirty minutes of carefree, lighthearted dancing ensued. Michael would shift over to dance with Emmett (whom he loved to dance with, because he never felt self-conscious or silly...go figure), or Ted, leaving Ben to dance with a handful of pink Emmett. All in all, they had a great time, but for Michael, there was no way it could be just like old times without Brian there to dance with him, to proffer him a tab of E on the tip of his pink tongue. Ben had been right after all.

There was nothing wrong with him feeling that way, he told himself firmly. Brian and he had been coming to Babylon long before Michael had ever came with Ben, or even Ted and Emmett. He couldn't help it if Brian and Babylon where synonymous, and if when the former was missing from the latter, things just didn't feel right.

He forced himself to stop thinking about it and just dance, for Christ's sake. Brian wasn't even there, yet Michael felt suddenly, inexplicably consumed by him.

* * *

The gyrating sea that was Babylon's dance floor parted before its unofficial god. Brian Kinney stalked into Babylon, his stride purposeful, his gaze unsettling, striking a tangible mixture of fear and desire into the hearts of admiring twinks everywhere. It was a gaze most of them knew well : I'm not interested tonight. Fuck off.

Still, hands reached and petted, eyes roamed and devoured the lithe, sensual form. No harm in looking. It was obvious he thrived from the attention, the lustful gazes; the knowledge that he held complete power. Not much else was in his withering control at the moment. Wouldn't they all be aghast if they knew the truth.

But all was not lost. He was Brian Fucking Kinney, after all. And he was on a mission. He grinned widely when he spotted his target, but slipped fluidly over to the bar to subtly examine his prey. He didn't want to startle the delicate creature, but lure it too him. Force it to make the first move.

Damn. Michael looked hot tonight. _Damn... _

He always loved watching Michael dance, almost as much as dancing with him. He could go from completely, adorably goofy to innocently obscene in one minute flat - a fact that always wrecked havoc on his dick. Even more so from knowing that it was reciprocated - Michael loved watching him dance, too.

He continued to watch Emmett and Michael, both smiling, laughing. It was a heart-warming sight - even for a cold old bastard such as himself. He chuckled both from the image in front of him and from the memories it evoked. There had been a time, when Em and Michael had first met, that he had been extremely jealous. They had seemed to immediately click with one another, forming an easy bond that made Brian feel disturbingly threatened. Not in the way he had felt threatened by Dr. Dave, or any man that Michael had dated - but in the friendship way. Michael and Em held about as much sexual attraction for each other as Brian held for Smelly Melly.

He had been fairly hostile and jealous towards Em at first for the mere fact that Michael and he could be so free together - Em could touch, and give the occasional kiss, without his heart aching every time - like Brian's. There were those touches and kisses of Michael's that made Brian feel safe, loved, and cherished, and then there were those that caused the sexual tension to rise to near unbearable levels, that caused him to walk the fine line of fucking everything up. Em didn't have to worry about screwing up his and Michael's friendship - not in the way Brian did, that was damn sure.

After certain events, the jealously had quickly faded, and Brian slowly started to realize why Michael had befriended Emmett so easily. He considered Em a dear friend (though he'd be damned if he was going to admit it) thanks to Michael. Plus, Brian was comforted by the thought that should something happen to him, Michael was not friendless. He was far from friendless. Unlike himself, he thought wryly. Oh, Michael Novotny would never be friendless, he corrected himself - but there were very few he allowed such a closely bonded emotional relationship - Brian, Ted, and Emmett. Couldn't forget the Nutty Professor - yet he didn't quite qualify as a 'friend' in Brian's book of rules, however.

He sipped at his beer - didn't want to get drunk, not tonight - and watched Michael swivel his jean-clad hips to the beat. Had Brian been dancing with him, he would have put his hands on the slim hips, sinking into Michael's rhythm. Hah - that was a really dirty thought to be having about his best friend, he thought sarcastically. But things were different tonight.

Like a bug to a bright light, Michael's unconsciously seductive movements drawled the recipient of Brian's hate thoughts of the moment. Almost as if he was stealing Brian's current ponderings - and maliciously taunting him with them - Ben placed his hands on Michael's hips. It was all in his head, though - they still remained oblivious to his presence. With a scowl, Brian turned to lean on the bar.

He wasn't going to let it get to him. He tried repeating it like a mantra - nope, not working. Still wanted to waltz over and give the Professor a swift kick in the ass.

He needed Michael to come to him. He couldn't wait much longer, to look at his face, to hug him. _Dammit - see me, Michael....see me, Michael. Come to me as you always do. I need you. More than I've ever needed you in my life. _

From the corner of his eye, he saw the figure that had been tormenting him unknowingly for three weeks walk forward in his direction. Brian turned and presented the smile that always made Michael forget. About everyone but him.

Time for the games to begin.

* * *

Michael had finally been able to ignore that tingling Brian sensation and enjoy the moment, live in the now, as Ben would say. Laughing at some hilarious comment Em had just made, he felt Ben's hands brace his hips from behind. Removing his arms from Emmett's shoulders, he turned into Ben's muscular torso and leaned into the familiar body, returning his wide grin.

The grin grew wider when he spotted, over Ben's massive shoulder, an even more familiar body bent over the bar, nursing a beer and staring absently at the wall.

"Brian's here." Ben's smile shrunk a little at Michael's announcement.

Before Michael could notice, however, he removed himself from Ben and walked over to his best friend. He had to refrain himself from running.

Brian hadn't seen him yet, and Michael had no guess as to the kind of reception he would get. But he couldn't help himself from grinning like an idiot. Brian had decided to come after all.

Brian turned his head when Michael was halfway to him, meeting his eyes. The hazel depths were bright and clear, and Michael's heavy heart lifted at the sight. Any pain Brian bore had always been his, too. Brian proceeded to give him that beautiful smile that Michael saw far too rarely, the smile he liked to think was just for him.

Something had him in a good mood, he mused, when Brian held the smile longer than usual.

He launched himself onto Brian and wrapped his arms around his neck, Brian's scent engulfing him, mollifying him. He felt him squeeze him tightly, turning his head slightly into Michael's pale neck; and at that moment, everything was right with the world.

"Brian! I thought you had plans tonight?"

"I did. I do."

Michael ignored the customary crypticness; deciding it was best to just get to the point.

"Where's Justin?"

"With his cock up a tight ass - if he has any good sense."

The response was purely Brian, but the tone wasn't. He almost sounded like he didn't care. Michael felt a brief flicker of sympathy for his friend - he knew how it felt to have a relationship take a temporary trip down shit lane. Before Michael could gently ask what was wrong, Brian projected a wicked grin across Michael's shoulder. Michael turned to see who would be the lucky recipient of Brian's scathing remark, and saw Em, Ted and Ben heading towards them - with Emmett, in all his pink glory, strutting in the front.

"If it isn't the Pink Panther...dum...da... dum...dum dum.." Brian recited the Pink Panther theme dead-on and to the exact rhythm of Emmett's stride. It was all Michael could do not to piss his pants with laughter. Ted could barely restrain himself, if only because of Emmett's warning glance. Ben sort of stood to the side and sulked.

Brian only stopped humming when Emmett gave his shoulder a light, playful shove.

"Your just jealous because I possess a sense of fashion that you don't."

"And I thank the Good Lord every day," Brian said, throwing an arm over Michael's shoulders, the way he used to. Michael didn't realize a simple touch could feel so good. Brian was like his old self - except for the Justin remark.

They all had questions that they were itching to ask Brian - where have you been these past weeks? what are you going to do about your job? why are you clinging to Michael?(Ben's most prominent question at the moment) - but his calm, I'm fine-and-dandy demeanor was oddly unsettling to them, so they kept their mouths shut for the moment. Only Michael remained unnerved; he seemed relieved, in fact. But then, he knew Brian better than the three of them put together, so that was hardly an oddity.

"So what brings the Abominable Snowman out of his cave?" Emmett raised his beer to his lips, threading his arm through Ted's and leaning upon him slightly.

"The usual...I'm out of bones to gnaw on."

Ted cracked up. "You mean_ boners_. What, Justin not sufficing?"

"Theodore, you wound me with your sharp wit. And not that it's any of your fucking business, but I'm looking for a different kind of fulfillment tonight."

"And we all know what you fulfill best."

"Jesus. Don't you all ever get tired of the sex cracks?" Michael's question was earnest, but it was met with snorts of laughter.

"See what I mean?" He spoke to no one in particular, laughing himself at how little he and his friends had really changed.

"Careful boys, Mikey has little virgin ears...Ben's waiting to deflower him on their wedding night. Right, Professor?"

Michael swatted Brian's cupped hands away from ears, giggling. "Fuck you!"

Brian ducked his head to whisper discreetly, but directly in Michael's ear, his voice a husky whisper. "Love to fuck _you_."

Michael stiffened, blushing furiously. Brian had not just said that to him, and continued on as if he'd said nothing. Michael suddenly felt suffocated, like the whole of Babylon was descending upon him. He had to get out from under scrutinizing eyes. Fast. And attempt to shuffle his badly disheveled brain back into some logical semblance.

"I gotta take a piss." Michael ducked out from under Brian's arm and set his beer on the bar, then looked over at Ben. "Be back in a sec." Ben, who had started a casual conversation with an older, flabbier type of man, just nodded sweetly, resuming his discussion - albeit hesitantly. He looked scared of the dude. Emmett didn't blame him, but wasn't about to come to the rescue, so he grabbed Ted's arm and dragged him back out onto the dance floor.

Brian had felt Michael's shudder, relished it. He'd seen Michael blush, feeling the heat of his frustration.

Making sure his three companions were still otherwise occupied, Brian fought his way through the oscillating mass of flesh that was Babylon's dance floor, and followed his best friend into the bathroom.

_Tonight, Mikey, things are going to be different. No excuses, no apologies, no regrets...._

_Just you and me. _

TBC................


	3. Chapter Three

**Be My Downfall**

_(see Chapter 1 one for warnings, disclaimer, etc.)_

_Author's Note_ : This chapter took longer than usual - a flashback popped into my head and wouldn't shut up, and then angry-ballsy-Michael took its place and he wouldn't shut up either! Anyways, I tried to abate the angst in this chapt. with a small vignette from their past. Can't all be angsty, can it? This part also ends fairly depressing, but I SWEAR it has a happy ending - eventually. LOL. This will more than likely morphe into a romance fic in the next few chapters. I have enough angst as it is, watching the actual show. I need to write something romantic or else I might go insane. Feedback of all kinds is always appreciated.

**

* * *

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**CHAPTER THREE**

Michael's hands were shaking. He silently cursed himself as he flipped on the porcelain faucet in Babylon's bathroom, splashing cold water onto his flushed face. Tremors ran through him as ice cold touched his sultry, hot skin. He doused his face repeatedly, furiously; as if it were possible to wash the memory away, erase the lecherous grin he'd seen on his best friend's face - a seductive leer that had been directed at him. His right ear still burned from the heat of Brian's whisper.

He raised his face, water beads trailing down his smooth skin. He gripped the edge of the sink and cursed himself yet again. _Get a fucking hold on yourself, Novotony. This is fucking ridiculous. He's probably stoned, drunk - or both. This is hardly the first time something of this nature has happened. _

Brian couldn't possibly be cruel enough to do this to him now. Michael looked at himself again in the mirror, the bathroom lights - which were red tonight instead of blue - making his skin appear even redder, but the soothing water had cooled his heated flesh relatively quick. Now he just looked pale.

Face still drenched in water, he moved a step over to a urinal, and unzipped his jeans. He closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath, trying to recall that breathing technique of Ben's. He had a feeling it wouldn't work. There was nothing that could alleviate, rid, or cure whatever it was that Brian Kinney did to his heart.

He felt the jab of a chin digging into his shoulder and arms wrap around his waist, the fingers not meeting to join at his middle; but moving in gentle, circular motions across the tight abs, mere inches away from his unzipped pants. He knew who it was before his assailant even spoke. Always did.

"Hey, Mikey. You look hot tonight." That damn whisper again. Soft, yet course - entirely sexual. Michael was livid. At himself - for getting hard just from Brian's raspy voice, hot on his neck, and from his persuasive, massaging fingers.

"Brian?! What the _fuck _are you doing?!" In a state of complete bemusement, he had finally managed to unfreeze himself as the motions of Brian's hands on his stomach became slower and slower, and he quickly zipped up his jeans and pushed Brian backwards and away with the full weight of his smaller frame.

"Is that for me, Mikey?" He said it like someone would who had just been handed a bouquet of flowers, but Michael knew exactly what he was insinuating.

"WHAT?!"

Brian ignored Michael's screeched query, and brushed his fingertips against Michael's moist cheek. It was hot, but it was also cold. Just the mere sensation sent titillating chills down Brian's spine.

"The blush."

Oh.

"Have I ever told you how much I love it? Makes me all tingly and fuzzy wuzzy inside," Brian said, in a goofy voice, taking a quick step towards Michael and digging his fingers into his sides mercilessly. Michael put his arms up protectively, but Brian had him effectively pinned.

"Brian...stop...tic-...-kles...reeeeaaaaal bad...please! Stop...BRIAN!" Michael was reduced to helpless fits of laughter, tears mingling with the water drops that still clung to his flushed skin. He squirmed and wiggled, but Brian held on tightly to his compact form. Brian was laughing just as vigorously as Michael, enjoying every second of his favorite pastime, a boyish smile on his face.

"Want me to stop? It'll cost ya."

Michael was glad they were alone - for the moment - in the dim, humid bathroom. He could only imagine what his breathless begging sounded like.

"Fine...anything....just..." Brian stopped at his words, and Michael panted, trying to calm his erratic breathing.

Brian looked at him, and Michael suddenly forgot about what had just happened. He forgot everything. Forgot that he was getting married two days from now. Forgot Ben. There was only Brian - his eyes sparkling with mirth, lips parted in a contented smile of breathless, shared laughter, and his warm forehead connecting with Michael's damp one. They were breathing each other's panted breaths...eyes closed....Brian's hands splayed along Michael's sides...

"Woah! - dudes, I'm like, totally sorry." The bleach blonde held up his hands in apology and backed out of the bathroom, exaggerating a wink. "I'll like, come back later." He winked at them, smacking his gum louder than necessary.

"Christ. That's just fucking lovely. Since when does anyone in Babylon have any modesty for fuck's sake?!" Michael gave Brian a light push, but Brian didn't budge. He snickered.

Regulars in Babylon knew about the two of them. That they flirted and touched and kissed - but never fucked. Never went to the backroom together. Bets and wagers had often been made - in secret of course, in fear of risking the wrath of a certain Brian Kinney - on when and if the two would ever get together. Some had their doubts, some didn't care, but most held their breath as if they were watching the progression of a dramatic TV show. After all, the pair had been coming to Bablyon together for nearly 15 years, the blatant affection they frequently showed to each other never diminishing.

"I don't see anything remotely funny about it, asshole. Now I'm going to go back out there and - "

"Hey!" Brian grabbed Michael's hand before he was out of reach. "Your payment...?" He pulled out a joint from seemingly no where and wagged it in front of his face. Their hands remained locked, stretched between them. Brian wanted to pull Michael to his body so badly it hurt. But he couldn't force this. He had to play it just right. Hit the right chords. Lure the enchanting creature to him. Seduce him slowly, and thoroughly.

Like that would be a problem.

"Brian - "...._I can't be near you. I'm scared of what I might do. What you might do. _Michael was bewildered - a dear caught in headlights. He didn't understand this, Brian's shifting moods and cryptic comments. Didn't understand why one second, Brian was suggestively coaxing him like a trick, and the next, tickling him like the best friends of twenty years that they were.

"Come _on_ Mikey. Don't be such a stick in the shit. Just one? ....old times sake? I won't see you for three whole weeks, Mikey."

Or maybe, I'll be seeing alot of you, in my bed. Brian knew if he said that, Michael would probably pass out cold. So, like he'd said to himself seconds ago - slow and easy, Kinney. He had a hard enough time believing he was actually going to do this, after twenty years of repression.

"You haven't seen me for three whole weeks and I'm still here, Brian. Why is that? What's wrong?" Michael's quiet, concerned voice caused Brian to unconsciously wince. This wasn't what he'd aimed for. He didn't want words, explanations. That could come later - literally.

Brian yanked Michael to him, covering his lips with his index finger. "Shhh. Please, Michael, not now."

Michael bit at his lower lip, setting his jaw firmly in place, tell-tale signs that he was irritated as hell - angry, maybe - but was gradually giving in, like he always did when Brian was involved. All he had to do was look into that beautiful, well-known face - and everything he thought he'd gotten over in the last year concerning his best friend was completely irrecoverable.

"Why 'not now', Brian?"

"Because none of it matters right now. And don't you dare pull Ben's 'living in the now' shit," Brian said lightly. He knew Michael realized he didn't believe in any of that stuff, and Brian sometimes wondered if Michael even did.

"Okay, I won't. But that still doesn't - "

"Do you remember that time, our freshman year in highschool, when we took that boring fieldtrip to that lame ass museum?"

Michael instinctively leaned his forehead into Brian's, eyes filling with laughter as he remembered the hilarity and closeness they had shared that day, causing him to momentarily forget he was supposed to be angry at Brian, questioning him for his odd behavior.

He couldn't resist a sentimental Brian. Well...as sentimental as Brian Kinney could be, which wasn't much, but it was the only word he could think of at the moment. He knew Brian treasured their teenage years together - it was the only fond memory he had of those years, thanks to none other than Jack Ass Kinney.

"How could I forget it? Except it was not boring or lame, not after the things you did. You were ruthless."

"And you were loving every second of it."

I always love every second I'm with you, even the ones in which you act like a callous, uncaring asshole, Michael thought.

"You're a bad influence," Michael said fondly, and not for the first time.

"It's a burdening job, but it pays well."

Michael snorted, smiling. "In what? Hangovers?"

"Nope. Mikey blushes. You stayed red as a fire hydrant that whole day."

"Jesus, since when did you get so schmaltzy?"

"Since you. You're a bad influence yourself, you know."

"Thanks. I'm flattered."

"You're so pathetic."

"Well I'm not the one getting all maudlin. For a change."

"I'm never maudlin - not like you get," Brian said resolutely, enunciating each word stolidly.

Michael thought it wise not to voice his varying opinion of that particular matter. But just what had caused Brian to bring up that specific day? Hell, Michael was flabbergasted that Brian even cared to remember its significance. Very maudlin indeed, Michael mused, as his thoughts flickered over that fall day when they were fifteen, unattached, and each other's entire worlds.

* * *

**_FLASHBACK_**

Carnegie Museum of Natural History. The last place on the whole fucking planet Brian Kinney wanted to be. It was only alleviated by the fact that he would be sharing this hellish experience with the one person he always wanted to be with, Michael Novotny.

"Settle down, please. CLASS! I said settle down! We must remember that we are in a public place, and we must use our quiet voices at all times."

"'Quiet' voices?" Brian looked at their teacher with disgust. Short, round, and blessed - or rather, cursed - with a sickening sweet, high pitched voice and dithering gestures, she would have been far better off teaching a class of first graders than a horde of rowdy teens.

At the back of the pack, Brian leaned in toward his best friend.

"Betcha five bucks she's a dyke."

"Brian, ssssh! She might hear!"

"...and? I'm supposed to be scared?"

"You're supposed to be respectful. She is our teacher. And you did get me in detention last week, so don't think I'm gonna - "

"I did? You're a fine one to talk...you're the one that drew the picture, Mikey," Brian said, chuckling as the hilarious image surfaced in his mind.

"Okay, I did, but you're the one who couldn't control yourself."

"Michael Novotny! Unless I am mistaken, the words 'use your quiet voices' just came out of my mouth!" The squat figure peered over the rims of her huge glasses, thin lips pursed in disapproval.

Christ! He'd been whispering. "Sorry, Mrs. Kagley." Michael's voice was practiced; polite yet unconcerned. Ever since the little incident of a week prior, the rotund woman had jumped him for even the slightest of blunders. Not that he blamed her. The picture had been pretty unforgiving. The thing that baffled him was that he still couldn't believe he had done such a thing, being the recipient of so many ridicules himself and all. Brian brought out this bold, audacious side of him that he didn't know existed. It felt good in a way. Irksome in another.

"Now, students - the tour starts in exactly 8 minutes. I want everyone going to the rest room, getting a drink, or doing anything they need to do before we start the tour. There will be no leaving the group during the tour, and there will be a quiz at the end, so pay close attention. Understood?"

"Yes, Mrs. Kagley," the group chorused, looking pitifully unenthusiatic.

"C'mon, Mikey." Brian nudged his friend with his shoulder.

"I don't have to pee."

"Neither do I, but let's just go someplace."

"We only have eight minutes, Brian, we need to - "

"I can think of tons of things to do in eight minutes, like -"

"Allright, I get your point and I already know what your going to say, so spare me."

Brian grinned, and herded his friend towards the back of the huge introductory hall, the cathedral ceiling spilling glaring sunlight over the white, sterile walls. The place was huge - smelled weird, too - with hundreds of places to get lost in. Brian grinned mischievously.

They found a secluded corner, not far from the main entry room, with soda and various snack vending machines. Brian spared a glance around the corner, confirming that their fellow students and teacher were otherwise occupied.

He turned on his heel, facing Michael, who had been watching him. He eyed the snack machines, digging a hand in the pocket of his tight, faded Levi's.

"Want a snack?"

"Can't have food in the museum halls."

"Right. Well, you want something for later, on the bus?"

"Sure. Uhh..." Michael surveyed the contents of the machine.

"How 'bout some M&M's?"

"I don't like chocolate."

"That's just cause your Ma says your allergic to it, and I say, bullshit. It's called zits."

"Thanks, Dr. Kinney. What about Doritos?"

"Yeah. Then I can watch you lick your fingers," Brian said, smirking as he pushed the coins through the slot.

"Very funny."

Brian glanced over his shoulder at Michael's nervous laugh, to find his friend's face a highly attractive shade of pink. He didn't know whether to tease Michael, hug him, or shove him up against the wall and give him a quick kiss.

So how about all three? Well, no need to scare the shit out of him. Michael was shy by nature, Brian had learned a little over a year ago when they'd met, and he was still self-conscious when it came to his sexual orientation. Brian tried to boost Michael's confidence every chance he got, gently and gradually appeasing his reticence about his gay status. It was the least Brian could do after the endless nights of comfort Michael's arms had given him - continued to give him - those nights when he would stumble to Michael's bedroom, bruised and forsaken by his own flesh and blood - though he never saw them as such. Michael's family was his family, the only place he felt truly safe, and only if Michael were there. Home was where Michael was, he'd decided that first night Michael had tended his busted lip, cradled him in his arms and resolutely convinced Brian with impassioned words that Jack Kinney was a hateful, revolting old bastard who deserved absolutely nothing.

Brian had never heard Michael talk about anyone like that before that night; with such conviction and choked anger in his voice. No one had ever talked to Brian like that, with love and concern in their every word, every gesture. He had wondered what he'd done to deserve it, except come to Michael emotionally emaciated and weak. He had always been indifferent, existing as if nothing could touch him or tear down his carefully constructed mental and emotional walls. He'd been so sure that Michael would recoil from him, daunted and unsure of how to deal with someone who'd always appeared so invincible, so untouchable.

Yet he hadn't. And Brian had felt terrible for thinking that he would, but it was like second nature to him, for everyone else had - until Michael Novotny.

The object of his thoughts became uncomfortable under Brian's knowing gaze, and brushed past him to grab the Doritos from the bottom of the machine.

He laughed nervously as he did so, angling his head slightly at Brian's stare. "What?"

Brian stopped him from bending to retrieve the chips, and lightly pushed his shoulder, trapping him between the machine and his body. Several inches were between them, but Brian braced both hands on either side of Michael's head, staring him intently in the eyes.

"Why do you do that?" Brian's voice was innocently inquisitive.

"What?" Michael said breathlessly, brown, expressive eyes large with unease. He knew Brian was talking about his tendency to blush at the most trivial of remarks. Was Brian going to make fun him too? Surely not, but Brian made fun of everyone - could be downright cruel - and Michael hadn't the slightest clue why he should be any different or Brian's exception, although he desperately wanted to be.

"This," Brian said matter-of-factly, brushing the back of his knuckles across one of Michael's reddened cheeks.

Michael only got redder, the flush traveling down his neck. Looking down, he diverted his eyes from Brian's, at a complete loss as to what to say.

Brian ducked his head to catch Michael's eyes, bring them back to his. "Don't ever change, Mikey, don't ever try to be anybody other than who you are. 'Cause your better than anyone I know."

Michael looked at Brian with complete wonderment, his mouth hanging open slightly. He'd never heard anything...so...so spontaneously honest and heartfelt come out of Brian's beautiful mouth, and it sent a thrill down Michael's spine. Brian liked him for who he was. Michael stared into the consuming hazel eyes, as he briefly wondered just when he had turned into Mr. Rogers. But he didn't care...Brian Kinney had just said something that he had desperately needed to hear, and his heart proceeded to soar off with his brain.

Brian decided to do something about Michael's gaping mouth, so he leaned in and captured Michael's mouth in his, releasing the plump lower lip slowly as he broke the kiss. He savored the unique taste of Michael mixed with the Nehi Peach they'd shared on the bus. It was short, but it spoke volumes for both boys. It was Brian's way of telling Michael that he would never berate him for being who he was, no matter how geeky or unassertive Michael might think himself.

The moment was broken when a sharp voice fractured the silence.

"Boys."

Michael jumped three foot, but had a 300 pound snack machine blocking any route of escape he might have from his proximity to Brian's body.

The voice was cold, calculating - brimming with disgust. The physical attributes of the man did his voice complete justice - tall, 50-ish, and with the figure of a flag pole; he was the embodiment of a highly sophisticated, cultivated straight man; if the look of repulsion he was so generously sending in Brian and Michael's direction was any indication.

Brian gave him a once-over, deciding he had definitely fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Not that he was even considering fucking some old geezer like this - the thought made him inwardly cringe - but it was habitual for him to gather first impressions by physical appearance. He knew it was shallow, but he didn't really give a damn. Like this guy had any integrity.

"Just what do you two young men think you're doing?" The gaunt figure looked down the brim of his hooked nose, one hand holding a styrofoam cup and the other clasped attentively behind his back.

Brian smiled - that cunning 'go to hell, asshole' smile, and casually draped an arm over his best friend - currently rigid with sheer terror - and looked directly and defiantly into slitted grey eyes.

"I would say it's pretty obvious that we're just standing here, minding our own fucking business, and getting discriminated for it. Sir."

Michael wanted to crawl through the slot in the snack machine.

Bean Pole's expression of obvious distaste grew ten-fold at Brian's answer. He stepped forward menacingly, never breaking the staring contest, thinking he could easily intimidate the young teen.

"This is a museum. People come here to view historical displays in a peaceful atmosphere, not to view blatant displays of homosexuality. I expect you boys to behave from here on."

Brian opened his mouth, ready to spit out a retort, but snapped it shut when he felt an elbow jab painfully into his ribs. Bean Pole walked past them, a laughable military rhythm to his steps, before Brian could voice his comeback.

Peering around the corner, they watched him march towards the main desk, set down his cup of coffee and chat briefly with the blonde receptionist before moving on to discreetly converse with Mrs. Kagley.

"Shit. Do you think he's telling her?" Michael asked, his voice quivering slightly.

"Not likely, but so what if he does. Relax, Mikey." Brian squeezed Michael's shoulder briefly, then moved to survey just what was in the rest of the vending machines along the wall. He'd noticed earlier that he'd never seen some of the styles before, figuring they must be of a new design. Sure enough, further inspection revealed a sticker on one of the machines, stating it was a new design on trial in select establishments. Smart advertising move, he mused. Try it out on a small scale and see if it ranks before you lose everything if and when it flops. It was rather ingenious, actually. Instead of selling potato chips or soft drinks, it offered items that traveling families often found themselves without and desperately in need of : aspirin, Band-Aids, batteries...laxatives?! That one caused Brian to chuckle. Joan could definitely put this kind of machine to good use.

His chuckle turned impish as an idea struck him. Exactly what he'd been looking for.

"Brian? What are you up to?" Michael knew that chuckle well.

"Got a quarter, Mikey?"

"Sure." He flipped Brian a quarter.

"Brian....what are you doing?"

Brian retrieved a little box of Ex-Lax, held it up for Michael to see and rattled it.

"Revenge." Brian's smile was ruthless, and Michael knew there would be no stopping him.

"What?! Brian, no, you're out of your mind. What if you get caught...?"

"You don't get caught if you have a plan of action. Besides, it's just what the old bastard needs."

Brian opened the box, peeling 4 tablets out of the packaging. He stuffed them into his palm and handed Michael the box.

"Here."

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

"I dunno...hide it, use it, throw it away...just get rid of it." Brian fiddled with his hair as he spoke, using the minimal reflection of the vending machine. Satisfied, he started to walk - more like strut - towards the receptionist desk, but Michael's hand on his wrist stopped him momentarily.

"No, Brian...you could get in big trouble."

"What's so new about that? I'm always in big trouble. C'mon Mikey, live a little."

With that, he swaggered off, thumbs in the backs of his jeans. Michael was mortified. This was not his idea of living, it was his idea of dying - a slow, painful death at the hands of Mrs. Kagely, his Ma, and that cadaverous old man. He hoped Brian knew what he was doing. But Brian seemed to always get the results he wanted, so Michael had tremendous faith in his friend, but this was going just a little too far.

Not yet ready to come out of his hiding spot, he watched inconspicuously from the corner as Brian approached the front desk. He couldn't help but admire (okay, drool) over Brian's perfect, Levi encased rear as he seductively walked away.

"Good morning, ma'am." Brian made sure his voice was enticingly polite, his smile his most stunning. Not much effort was needed, however; he knew he was gorgeous no matter what he was doing.

The young, blonde receptionist looked up from her work, did a double take, and looked back up, her smile matching Brian's as she took in his appearance.

"Oh, good morning sir." Holy Moses, but he was beautiful. Intense hazel eyes, loose, wavy honey hair that was perfect for running fingers through; and a full, pink mouth. She gulped, realizing this was probably a mere 16, 15-year-old. "Can I help you?" But so what if she flirted a little.

Brian leaned over the desk, palms closed, both arms braced on either side - one right beside a cup of steaming coffee. Good, nice and hot - it would dissolve faster.

He saw the blonde, overly made-up woman visibly gulp. This was too easy.

He glanced at her name tag, his smile never faltering.

"As a matter of fact, you can, Jennifer. See, I have a really large family, about 30 or so, and I was wondering what the group tour rates are - similar to the tour I'm about to go on. I'd love to bring my family here."

She realized she'd been staring a bit too deeply at his eyes. "Oh, um, yes...it's uh...um...let me look." Darn! She knew tour rates by memory, or so she thought - but this kid had totally spoiled her professional concentration. She looked down at her notes and calendar, finally finding the chart that listed the rates. She had to stare at it longer than she usually did, collecting her thoughts. She'd swear on her Aunt Linnie's grave that this kid emitted sexual pheromones like fire emitted smoke.

"10% group discount on 20 or more people!," she sputtered, as if proud she'd finally found it. "Children ten and under are free, adults are $3.50...." she continued to go on, staring at the paper, but a voice, smooth as warm honey, interrupted her.

"That's just what I needed to know, thank you Jennifer." With that, the lithe young man walked off towards the rest of his group. She could only stare after, more than a little dumbfounded.

Michael watched Brian charm the pants off the unsuspecting Revlon poster girl. If she only knew. It was obvious she fell for it the second her eyes met Brian's, and Michael sighed; he knew exactly how she felt. Well, almost - he was gay, after all.

He'd gone to join the rest of his classmates (who for the most part usually ignored Brian and Michael, knowing that they would unintentionally be excluded from the inseparable pair) when Brian had walked off, but stood just outside the group and pretended to read the directory. From there, he had a perfect view of Brian's little charade.

The blonde mumbled something, then looked down, shuffling through her papers. Brian deftly lifted a hand, dropping all four tablets from his palm and into the steaming cup. You could hardly even tell that he had moved his hand.

Michael released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and suddenly Brian was at his side, a pleased smile upon his lips.

"See? Nothing to it."

Michael glared at him.

"What?"

"Your insufferable sometimes, you know that? Oh my God, look." Michael pointed with his head towards the front desk, looking as if he didn't know whether to laugh, groan, or hide.

Bean Pole had finished his overtly friendly chat with Mrs. Kagely, and was sauntering his way over to retrieve his cup of steaming coffee. He took several long sips before tossing the styrofoam into the nearby trashcan.

"Oh, shit. He drank it! He actually drank it!" Michael couldn't believe that Brian had actually pulled it off, and so smoothly - just like the brave, valiant superheroes in his beloved comic books.

"'Oh shit' indeed. That'll teach the old homophobe." Brian and Michael smiled at each other, barely able to contain their laughter.

* * *

"....and here we have the fossils of an Allosaurus, one of the largest carnosaurs of North America. Like all theropods, Allosaurus walked on two legs with its heavy tail stretched out behind for balance. An average _Allosaurus_ weighed about 4 tons, or 3.6 metric tons, and measured 35 feet, or 10.5 meters, from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail. The largest known was 45 feet, or 13.5 meters, long. When _Allosaurus_ stood upright, it was 16.5 feet, or 5 meters tall, and ...."

Brian inched his lips to brush Michael's ear, whispering inside. "When do we get to see the Fuckasaurus? And the Tricera-TOPS?"

Michael silenced his friend by pinching him lightly on the arm. He had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing himself, though Brian's murmured pun had made him blush - again. He wondered briefly just who he had inherited this accursed tendency from. Certainly wasn't his mother.

They had discovered two things about Bean Pole - who turned in actuality to be called a Mr. Thompson - was a: a nasty homophobe, and b: an extremely long-winded homophobe. His monotone droning was more than Brian - hell, the whole class and even the ever-attentive Mrs. Kagely - could bear. If they hadn't been standing and moving from exhibit to exhibit, the whole class would have long been asleep. It was bored faces all around - but Mr. Thompson was oblivious, caught up in his own world of ceaseless Jurassic facts. His supercilious air only added insult to injury.

Only one thing, however, kept Brian and Michael from being too bored.

Michael had begun to wonder if the expiration date was bad, and it had all been a risk for nothing. Brian, however, had calculated the time in his head. Anytime now.

No one got away with talking to him - more importantly, Michael - like that.

Brian yawned, loud and exaggerated. Being in the very back, no one seemed to notice. The toneless buzz seemed to have a hypnotizing effect.

He desperately wanted to lean on Michael, or for Michael to lean on him. But they both withheld from arrant physical contact whenever around classmates - not to mention teachers. It was just easier that way, but it nibbled away at Brian's proud soul. He wanted the world (with the exception of Joan and Jack) to know that he was gay and proud of it. He only wished Michael felt the same, but he could hardly blame him - people were cruel. And nothing tore at his heart and awakened his fury more than someone hurting Michael.

"....possessing a...talon.....ranging from...excuse me..."

Brian glanced at Michael with a knowing smirk, who was still red, but this time from constrained laughter.

Ashen and doubled over, Mr. Thompson dabbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead. His face contorted in pain, but he struggled to maintain his dignity and worldy-wise appearance.

".....now then, the talon is ellipsodial....when..." Dawning realization caused his slitted eyes to bug, and his body to freeze.

The teens, awakened from their daze by the vocal fumbling, eyed him with interest as he held his stomach.

Before anyone could voice concern, the wispy form was running down the hall at breakneck speed, ducking into a hallway that was blazened with the word 'restrooms' in red neon.

Giggles erupted, accompanied by relentless quips. Mrs. Kagley, confused, struggled to keep the group under control.

"Class! Enough. We shall move on without Mr. Thompson's guidance for the time being."

Livened, the teens followed in her wake, still jeering amongst themselves, delighted by the turn of events - so much so that no one noticed Brian and Michael's sudden disappearance.

The two boys crouched behind the neighboring Velociraptor display, falling against each other's shoulders in attempt to muffle their giggles. Michael let a rather loud snort escape, and Brian raised his hand to cover Michael's mouth. He motioned 'this way' with his thumb, and they sprung to their feet, creeping down the hallway.

Michael saw that Brian was headed towards the bathrooms and shook his in 'un uh, no way I'm going in there' and backed away, still giggling. Brian grabbed his hand, interlocking their fingers, and pulled him along. This place was so fucking quiet, he just knew someone was going to hear them.

They reached the rest rooms, and once again, Michael shook his head. Brian motioned towards the woman's restroom, and Michael's eyes almost popped out.

But Brian had drug him inside and locked the door before he could say anything, and besides, he was cracking up too much to care.

Once inside, they laughed themselves silly. Just the image of the other so lost in mirth was enough to send them into yet another set of helpless guffaws.

"Did you see his expression? His eyebrows could've walked off with his face!" Michael followed his words with an impersonation that sent them into hysterics all over again.

The giggles finally subsided, and Michael realized that his right hand was clammy and still intertwined with Brian's. It felt good. Too good. Brian suddenly reached out and cupped his hand at the back of Michael's neck, bringing their foreheads together, playing with the soft hair of Michael's neck.

Michael felt his stomach flutter. "Brian...we'd better get out of here...someone might think..."

"That I'm in here fucking you?"

Michael turned crimson for at least the fifth time that day, but he didn't lower his eyes. He was slowly growing accustomed to Brian's brazen manner of teasing, but he was always caught off guard.

"I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you're with me, Michael." Brian kissed Michael for the third time that day, a chaste brush of lips that he fervently hoped said other things that he could not say - yet. Maybe someday.

Michael smiled, savoring the softness of Brian's lips - but cherishing more Brian's hidden words, safeguarding them in his heart. Could you love somebody so much it hurt?

"Me too, Brian...but...can we get the fuck out of this woman's rest room? Please?"

END FLASHBACK

* * *

Only seconds had passed, but both had reflected back on that day.

Michael felt a sharp pang of regret mingled with sadness at the realization that he and Ben could never have something like this, what he and Brian had - half a childhood and their entire adulthood of memories and shared experiences that bound their very souls - their very being - together.

They had given each other so much, without asking or expecting...it just was. They had endured so many things that had tested and strained their friendship but never tore them apart, never altered their feelings or mutual respect for one another. When they had nothing else to cling to, they clung to each other and the boundless reserve of unconditional love. They sought each other no matter who the other might have in their life - because that temporary person could never be enough, could never take the foremost place in each of their hearts, minds, and souls. The spot that had been permanently filled since the day their eyes met.

Christ...had he just thought of Ben as temporary?

Michael knew if he was ever asked to define his relationship with Brian, he couldn't. No one could ever possibly understand, unless they had been in a similar relationship themselves. How did you explain what he had with Brian? We love each other, kiss each other, we share a bed on occasion, we complete each other, we're best friends of 20 years, we know one another better than we know ourselves...but we've never been lovers.

And more than likely never will be - the mere thought causing Michael's heart to ache. He'd given up on Brian ever committing to him a year ago...but there was still a fleeting part of him that hoped, that dreamed - but it had been effectively stifled; after it all, it had been 20 long years of hoping and dreaming.

Of looking but not touching. Of constantly stepping back over the line before both feet reached the other side.

The one thing they both wanted more than anything was the only thing that held the potential to destroy their friendship. But that was only the fear nagging away at what they knew was true - which was that nothing could destroy them.

How ironic was the fact that they had shared just about everything two people could possibly share, except for the intimacy of their bodies? It just didn't seem right. That should be the easiest part - they had all the difficult issues, the ones most couples separated over, in the bag. They could spend every second of every day together and never tire of the other's company. The could tell each other anything and everything, even their deepest secrets. Nothing could substitute the comfort and support they found in presence of each other; they knew exactly what the other needed without exchanging a single word.

So why was it so damn hard?

Very wrong way to word that, he thought - Brian was giving him a look. That look. The one he'd seen him toss invitingly to hot tricks and sexy waiters. A hazy 'come-hither' stare that Michael could feel boring into every fiber of his being.

"I'm glad your here, Mikey. With me. Like it should be." Brian's voice was soft and husky. His hot breath played across the surface of Michael's lips, prompting him to unconsciously lick them, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth with his tongue in a gesture of shaken nerves.

Michael heard himself moan as Brian's hands glided down his sides to map the contours of his body, ending their journey to smooth over his ass. He felt himself shiver, eliciting a smile from Brian.

Brian never severed his connection with Michael as he pulled him along by the hand, making for the last stall in the long row of them. Michael simply floated along behind, willing to follow Brian anywhere without question. Brian fitted himself and Michael in the small cubicle with one fluid motion, shutting the door none to gently. Michael flinched, the bang rudely jarring his brain from the muddled fog in which it was ensnared. Did Brian have to be so goddamn loud about everything?

Then, Brian did it again. Gave Michael that look. Michael heard the rushing of blood in his ears, like a dull buzz, its frantic pace matching the faint thump of Babylon's bass filled music. It was too faint to hear what song was playing, to see if it held any significance to the current situation.

Michael had heard, through the enormous, unashamed grapevine that was Liberty Avenue, certain tales concerning the sexual exploits of the legendary Brian Kinney. One that had stuck with him - one that he felt he just might be able to verify here soon - was that Brian's normally hazel eyes turned emerald green right before he fucked. A tiny part of him - very small compared to the other part - hoped the rumor was bullshit, as was most of the gossip one heard through the various, unreliable sources - because right now, Brian's eyes were a hypnotizing shade of emerald green.

_Oh, holy shit_. Michael felt himself pinned to the wall. Brian stooped, slowly and sinuously - much like he did when they danced - to make himself the exact height as Michael, aligning their equally aroused, heated lower bodies. Both gasped with pleasure-laden exhilaration, heads falling against each other in murmured cries.

Michael's thoughts were in a violent uproar, his body refusing to respond to his brain, and vice versa. All he knew was the delicious heat of Brian's possessive hands and warm, questing lips.

He leaned his head back on the cool metal of the stall, and heard himself gasp sharply as Brian's hands skimmed up his torso, moving to trace his neck and then his face. Brian used both of his flattened palms to push the cool droplets of water from the pale forehead and into the softness of Michael's hair, using the moisture to spike the raven locks with the persuasion of his gentle fingers, stopping only to admire his work. His Mikey.

Neck arched, pink, full lips parted in ecstasy and skin glowing with flushed, pure sexual energy...Brian had never wanted any one person more in his life. Michael was submitting to him, allowing this to happen.

His fears had been unfounded.

Michael may not be in love with him anymore - but that, Brian was sure, would soon happen - but he still wanted Brian. Had always wanted him.

Never in his his 16 years of sexual activity had Michael's body been so sensitized, so stimulated. He'd wanted this for so, so long...but his clouded mind couldn't understand exactly why it was happening now...

Brian cradled Michael's face, holding it like a precious jewl beneath his hands. He dived his head to lap the beads of moisture from Michael's neck, licking long, slow swipes with his tongue, grazing with his teeth ever so softly.

"Brian..."

"Mikey..."

What were they doing? What was this going to do to them? Other than be the most fantastic orgasm either had ever experienced, but...what had brought them here?

"Wait..."

Brian responded by covering Michael's full lips with his own, hands moving ever so slowly down Michael's trembling body...

Overcome by the feel of Brian's familiar lips, Michael's hands tangled themselves in Brian's thick hair, massaging his scalp. His kissed Brian with such intensity that he was propelled to the opposite side of the stall, mirroring the position Michael had been in only seconds before. He lifted his left leg to wrap around Brian's thigh, the contact eliciting muffled moans and unintelligible cries from their joined mouths. Brian rocked ever so slightly against him, and Michael responded in turn, evoking a soft, feral growl from deep within Brian's throat.

It was the most passionate, desperate kiss either had shared - either with one another or with another man. It made all their most memorable kisses look like mere pecks on the cheek.

Their eyes alternated between blissfully closed and fluttering open, drinking in the sight of the other so wantonly aroused. Lashes quivered against pale and tan skin, revealing irises consumed with lust; gazes that devoured with lust.

The frenzied dance continued, the pace building, but persisting with a perfect balance of clashing, tasting tongues; their desperate whimpers and hard bodies melting deliciously as one.

He felt Brian's hands grip the front of his black jeans, a single finger running slowly down the raspy teeth of the zipper...

Reality came crashing down on him like a thousand pound brick. He pulled his lips from Brian's, shocked to find that he had been fully dominating the latter part of the kiss, had been smashing Brian into the wall with surprising force. He looked into Brian's vivid green eyes, hearing nothing but harsh breathing, seeing nothing but the beautiful face - a face he had cherished, loved, and longed for since he was forteen. A face that had rejected him in the past, but continued to taunt him throughout the years.

Everything suddenly, horridly clicked into place.

Michael jumped back suddenly, as if mere contact with Brian would burn him. He backed dazedly into the farthest corner, as far away from Brian as he could possibly get. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, in vain attempt to mask the visible trembling. An equally trembling hand was slowly raised to run through his spiked hair. His youthful features were utterly lost, confused; his shaky voice overwrought with terror-stricken disbelief.

"Brian...what were we doing...I almost..."

Brian was still leaning against the wall for support, breathless and painfully hard. He stalked toward Michael, his eyes silently pleading.

"Michael..."

Michael stuck out a hand, his eyes never leaving Brian's, though against his better judgment - because he was afraid of what he knew he would find in them - or what he wouldn't. "Stop, Brian. Tell me what we were doing. Why."

"Well, Mikey, its called foreplay, and it usually leads to - "

"No shit, Sherlock. I'm being fucking serious here, asshole!!! And if you can't respect that, then we -""

"Taking a risk, Michael. We're taking a risk. One that we -"

"''Taking a fucking _risk_?! Is that what this is to you? A way to make yourself feel better? Like that time when your dad died?"

The anger in Michael's voice startled Brian; cut through his very being, hurt him more than anything ever physically could. He could take anything but Michael's pained anger; anger directed at him, pain caused by him.

But at the same time, it strangely aroused him. Michael was beautiful when he was angry. Michael was always beautiful, had always been - and Brian wanted nothing more right now than to join his body - along with his frantically beating heart - with Michael's.

He realized too late that he'd said entirely the wrong thing, in the wrong way, and most definitely at the wrong time. He didn't think like Michael, talk like Michael, when it came to expressing the carefully guarded feelings of his heart. He hadn't meant taking the of risk getting caught fucking his best friend in the bathroom on impulse when they both (or in his case, supposedly) had boyfriends.

Bringing up that day in the loft had hurt, too. Michael had stopped him that time - uncannily resemblant to the present situation - because Brian had said entirely the wrong fucking thing.

Isn't this what you always wanted, Michael? Fuck, he been so pissed at himself for saying something like that, for letting the silence continue, for allowing any time for Michael's eyes to fill with pain and disappointment. He could've said something, done something, to take back what he'd said, to show what he really felt. But he hadn't. He'd let the words sink, the meaning come across as if he were about to do Michael a favor, get something over with that been in the way for too long. And Michael's response still haunted him to this very day. What? A drunken fuck so you don't have to think about your dad? I never wanted that.

"What are you talking about?" Brian suddenly felt physically ill. How in the hell had they ended up like this? Arguing like two lesbians on the rag? How did he always manage to fuck things up that were most important to him?

"You know goddamn well what I'm talking about." Michael's voice broke, on the brink of tears. Tears of confusion, tears of an uncertain heart that was desperately trying comprehend what was going on.

Brian suddenly had the forgotten, magically appearing joint in his hand again, struggling to light it - his fingers were shaking. He almost had it when it was suddenly snatched from between his trembling digits and promptly chucked into the toilet. Michael lifted his foot, nudging the flush handle with his foot. Brian watched his consolation swirl down the porcelain bowl.

"Hey! That was my last one!"

Michael's arms we're crossed, his expression grim. Brian had never seen him like this - so furious and visibly confused - but it was also visible that he was trying desperately to hide it, to put forth the idea that he had his emotions under control.

But Brian knew better.

"Good. Are you high right now? Drunk?"

"No, of course not. And who are you, my goddamn nanny?"

"I'm your goddamn best friend! And you owe me a fucking explanation!"

"I have no explanation for fucking - that hasn't been given already, anyways."

Next thing Brian knew, he was shoved against the wall, Michael's body flush with his, finger poking into Brian's chest. Michael's amber eyes were black from lust and anger. Brian could not get over the fact that he'd never seen this side of Michael, not in twenty years of knowing him. For the first time, he didn't know what to say. What to do. He didn't even know exactly what he'd done, but he had a small idea -

"SHUT the FUCK up, Kinney! Do think this is funny? Do you just get a great big 'ol laugh outta making a joke of people's feelings? People you supposedly care about, always have, always will? Ring a little fucking bell?"

Brian's mouth opened, then snapped shut. The falling sensation in the pit of his stomach grew.

"Why, Brian? I am sick and tired of being your little consolation prize. I'm really sorry that you lost your job, that you and Justin aren't fucking as much as you'd like. Doesn't mean you can just come here, after pushing me away for a solid three weeks, and decide to do me."

Oh, fuck. Fuck no. He hadn't meant those words like that, this like that, not at all. How did he fix it?....what did he have to do to make the words come easily to him? The way they always did for Michael? But, this was different...he was trying to tell him something he'd been hiding for 20 years, in a different way than simply saying 'you're pathetic', or 'always have, always will.'

No to mention his past record was rather shitty. He'd pushed Michael away more times than he cared to remember. Faced with saying the words, he felt as though his tongue had been cleaved right from his mouth.

Brian took a deep breath. "Mikey, this has nothing to do with Justin, or work... or _anything _like that...."

"Bullshit."

"Mikey..."

"Bullshit, Brian! Bullshit! If it's not about that, then what is it about?"

Brian was too stunned to answer. He wasn't ready to answer. This wasn't how he'd planned for things to be. No.

"Were you just going to make our first time here in a greasy bathroom stall? Fuck me where its convenient for you? Take one of your thrilling _risks_ by fucking me with my _boyfriend_ 100 feet away? You know, the guy I'm marrying in three days?!"

Brian looked away. A single tear had traced down Michael's ivory skin, his dark eyes liquid with hurt. And it pained Brian to know he had caused it. By being a stupid, selfish prick.

He wasn't ready to tell Michael how he really felt - he had wanted to show him, make him feel what Brian had been feeling for three weeks - no, 20 fucking years. And now, he didn't know if Michael would even care.

Damn! Was he missing something? Hadn't Michael felt it too? Because Brian had never felt like he had a sheer minute ago, when Michael had kissed him, touched him like a lover would. He had never wanted it to end - because he had felt free, free to combine sex and emotion and - yes, even love - into one earth shattering experience with the person that meant more to him than anything. Because he knew Michael would never judge him for it, that Michael would appreciate it, treasure it like no one else would. He would know exactly what Brian was experiencing, and they would share it together. It wouldn't be a wasted effort for Brian to collapse his emotional shields - nothing he did for Michael would ever be a wasted effort.

Problem was, he'd failed to consider Michael's feelings, to respect his 'ethical standings'. He would never cheat on Ben...not even for Brian. Why hadn't Brian seen that even suggesting that he do so, especially with him, would only hurt Michael?

Debbie's voice was suddenly in his head, jeering at him...you can't do anything quietly, can you? You have to go and push him off a fucking cliff.

Michael was strong - Brian had told him so himself, and meant every word of it. So what had made him think that he wouldn't be strong enough to resist Brian,(God knows he had several times before this) and keep his commitment to Ben?

He'd thought that he was the only one Michael could love. He was supposed to do anything for him. Even this.

He was supposed to not care about the words. To know what Brian was going to say without him even saying it.

"Brian....aren't you going to say anything?"

He looked down, unable to take the hurt in Michael's eyes, but raised them when a wave of anger swept through his body like wildfire. Anger at himself, for not being able to say the words. More importantly - not being able to show him what felt. He'd always excelled at that, but this time, his carnal lust for Michael had gotten in the way, clouded his intentions. He was angry at Michael for letting that fucking professor come between them. He was angry at himself for screwing everything up royally by just taking what he wanted and the hell with everyone else, like Michael had told him in the comic book store that night. Furious for being who he was, and knowing he would direct his anger at the person he loved most. He wasn't called Rage for nothing.

"What do you want me say?" His words were clipped, acidic.

Michael laughed bitterly, his features becoming even more strained at Brian's indifferent response.

"I think I've been standing here telling you, Brian. Justin made a commitment to you, just as I made a commitment to Ben. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

_No. You're everything, Michael. Fuck them. Fuck me._

"You don't love him."

Michael started, would have stepped back, but he was already against the wall.

"Who are you to tell me who I love and don't love?!"

"Your best friend," Brian deadpanned, echoing Michael's earlier protest.

"Well you sure as hell haven't been treating me like one. And I _do_ love Ben. You think I'm so shallow that I'd marry him if I didn't? I've never told you that you didn't love Justin, in fact I told you just the opposite. Everyone pushes him onto you, and you let them. You can't stand here and tell me don't care about hurting him."

He wanted to tell Michael that he was wrong, he didn't love Justin, never had been in love with Justin, but he couldn't - because Michael had just decimated everything Brian had been clinging to by telling him he loved Ben. Right in his face, right when he was about to give Michael everything they'd so foolishly denied themselves. But how was it Michael's fault? Brian hadn't said or done anything anything to make Michael see - except barge in after two weeks of silence and murmur a seductive taunt in his ear. Michael wasn't a mindreader.

Fury surfaced uninhibited, fueled by the fact that someone else had what he wanted from Michael. That Michael had given it to him, when it was Brian's. Brian had never told Justin he loved him because those words could only be said to one person - and it wasn't him. It hurt more than Brian could stand that Michael didn't feel the same, coupled with the fact that Brian had went on with his life - wasting precious time - arrogantly thinking that Michael would wait forever.

So, fight fire with fire - play along like he did love Justin. Hurt Michael like he'd so nonchalantly hurt him.

And get the hell out of here, before he did something he'd never forgive himself for.

"Your right. I shouldn't take it out on you. There are plenty of guys who'd love to have me fuck 'em. I just thought you'd want to know what it was like, before you become forever bound to the Professor in holy matrimony, till death do you part."

Nothing could describe how Brian felt at that moment, as he bit out the words, watching a glistening tear roll down Michael's face for every stinging word he'd said. He hated himself for saying them, he hated Michael for making him say them.

For not knowing what he'd been trying to tell him, however crudely or unconventionally he might have went about it. Michael had always known before.

"Fuck you, Kinney. Fuck you, for lying to me everytime you said you cared about me, everytime you kissed me, touched me, was there for me...it meant nothing. To me, or to you. I'm not going to let you manipulate my feelings anymore. Just remember this : I know your fucking secret identity. Now get the fuck out of here." Michael wrapped his arms around himself - he wasn't shaking, but startlingly still. All except for the silent, streaming tears.

Brian hoped to God that Michael felt as numb as he did. He deserved it.

Brian stared at Michael for several seconds, and allowed two of his own tears to escape. He took one last look at Michael, opened the stall door, and stormed out into the chaotic vibration that was Babylon. It was 80's night, and Def Leppard's 'Love Bites' was playing.

* * *

So adrift in their own tirade - nobody existing, or important, but themselves at that moment in time - the two quarreling occupants of the bathroom stall had failed to notice the comings and goings of about half a dozen other club-goers. Not that it mattered - men in Babylon had better things to do then listen in on a hissy fit - although the heated words had raised more than a few eyebrows.

Including those of Emmett Honeycutt.

He'd walked into the bathroom, thinking it unoccupied - until he heard the most hurt, devastated voice he'd ever heard. Michael's voice.

He'd stopped dead in his tracks, ears roaring as he strained to hear and comprehend the stinging words. Even though the second word he'd heard Michael utter already named the other of half of the argument, Emmett didn't need to hear it to know. Only one person could upset Michael so badly, could put such a completely pained inflection in his gentle voice.

"...Fuck you, Kinney. Fuck you, for lying to me everytime you said you cared about me, everytime you kissed me, touched me, was there for me...it meant nothing. To me, or to you. I'm not going to let you manipulate my feelings anymore. Just remember this : I know your fucking secret identity. Now get the fuck out of here."

Emmett froze, completely still, as deathly silence - with the exception of the dull thumping of Babylon's speakers - filled the empty bathroom. The air felt hollow and thin. He couldn't begin to imagine what might've happened for Michael to say such a thing, with such tangible devastation in his voice. But then, this was Brian Kinney.

Emmett heard a door begin to open, and became a blur of pink as he dashed into the nearest stall, slipping nimbly behind the door and closing it softly. He proceeded to jump up on the toilet, thinking wryly to himself that his very pink boots might give him away. Pink Panther indeed, he thought dryly; he'd never felt more like one -slithering around craftily in - of all places - Babylon's bathroom.

This was a first, he mused, crouched up on a toilet in all his pink splendor. Him - Emmett Honeycutt - being unostentatious about something.

Through the small crack in the door, he saw a tall figure flash by like a bat of out hell. Undeniably Brian. Where the hell was he going? He was just going to leave Michael so upset? Emmett was beginning to feel acutely disconcerted. Something was not right - this was more than a little dispute between friends.

He heard Michael come out, followed by the sound of running water, overtoned with grunts and groans that could only be somebody going at it in the doorway. He then felt more than heard Michael walk by. He waited for several minutes, his legs beginning to tingle and his tight, pink pants starting to ride up uncomfortably. He made sure the coast was clear before exiting the stall, standing for several more minutes with his back against the door, trying to decide what to do.

Emmett knew Michael wouldn't tell anyone. Not something like this - he had never heard Michael say anything like that to Brian since he'd known him. So, for the time being, he decided to lay low, act as if he knew nothing. But just for now. If Michael wanted to tell someone, he would do it when he felt ready, on his own terms, and to the person of his choice.

Emmett's prided himself a drama queen, but his soft heart genuinely ached for Michael. He could only imagine what Brian might have said or done, but this time, it appeared, he'd gone to far.

Emmett just hoped he could keep his big fat mouth shut about this.

* * *

Michael splashed water onto his face for the second time that night, although this time, his face was red from crying. Sometimes it really sucked to have such fair skin.

He'd been able to stem his tears, if only because of the fact that the others would notice his puffy eyes and ask questions. And he really didn't want to be asked questions right now.

He turned off the faucet, and was horrified to look in the mirror and find red marks along the curve of his neck. Marks Brian had made - trails of passion left by voracious teeth and a hot, sensual mouth. Michael could still feel it. Could still feel everything.

So much for avoiding questions.

He touched the teeth marks and small, pink circles briefly, closing his eyes at the images his mind continued to play over and over....and over.

He turned and walked from the bathroom, feeling like he had left some vital part of himself back in that cramped stall.

Or more accurately; with the man who had just left it.

He'd never felt so numb in his life.

* * *

Brian found himself at the park. It was empty, of course - who in their right mind went to the park at 12:30 in the morning? He most certainly didn't - well, obviously he did, but he could argue about being in his right mind. Especially now.

After fleeing the oppressiveness of Babylon, he had climbed into his Corvette dazedly and begun to drive. Anywhere.

And so he'd found himself at the park against his own will, sitting in the same playground swing he sat in when he'd told Michael not to fall in love with Ben. The same spot where some anonymous woman had told them what a beautiful couple they made, proceeding to mistake Gus for his and Michael's child.

Even complete strangers had seen it. How could he have wasted so much time?

And now it was almost too late. Almost. He wasn't giving up, but he wasn't giving in, either.

He rocked the swing gently, leaning his forehead against the cool metal chains. He remembered all the times he and Michael had walked in this park, talking about anything and everything, people-watching and joking. He remembered one wintry day, before Ben or Justin, when the whole of Pittsburgh had been blanketed in a layer of white, pristine snow. How they'd went walking together on its perfect surface, and he'd stuffed a handful of the white iciness down the back of Michael's shirt. A full-out snowball fight had ensued, much like the ones they'd engaged in as boys. People had stopped to watch them, he remembered, and at the time he really didn't know why.

He felt wetness on his cheek. _Shit - must be starting to rain._

Was this how it was going to be? Everywhere he went, bombarded with memories and images of Michael? He felt as if he couldn't shake his lingering presence on his skin, on his lips. His every thought was consumed by him.

He needed time - time to sort things out, time to plan out the future. Whether or not it included Michael, he had no choice. Without Michael, there was no future - as simple as that. But he desperately wanted it to, if that was also what Michael wanted.

Just the thought that Michael was so close yet so far away made something in him ache that he had never felt before. He had to get away - from Pittsburgh, from here, from Michael.

He pulled out his cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans and scrolled through the numbers. He took a shaky breath, and pressed dial.

"Hey, Justin. I've been reconsidering your offer. About L.A."

_TBC....._


	4. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Queer As Folk. No profit is generated from this, it is done merely because I love writing, I have a story to tell, and I want to share.  
  
**Feedback: **Pretty, pretty please.  
  
**_Author's Note:_** _Very busy few months for me, but I still found time to work on this. Debbie fans, be warned. I write her very realistically and I have no mercy on her characterization. She pissed me off the majority of season 4, so this is kinda that frustration coming to fruition. I know I kinda leave it where you want to smack Brian into saying something, but believe me, I have an even better better Deb/Brian confrontation coming up in a later chapter, and then a _gasp_ nice, apologizing Debbie who, of course, is proved wrong!_

__

_

* * *

_

Michael trudged up the steps to his apartment - our apartment, he corrected himself - exhausted from a bustling day at the store. It seemed the news of RAGE the movie had spread like wildfire across the gay plains of Liberty Avenue. He'd been bombarded with ceaseless questions, (most of which he didn't have anything close to an answer for) tremendously appreciated congratulations and best wishes, and the exceedingly annoying - that is, after being asked about 3,000 times - 'are ya gonna be rich' inquiries. To top it off, he'd been finishing up Hunter's training in the fundamentals of running a comic book store during the whole barrage. Normally, he would delight in the chance to talk with eager Rage enthusiasts, but there was nothing 'normal' about today.  
  
Not after last night.  
  
So instead, he'd acquired one bitch of a headache and a sore tongue from biting it frequently - to keep himself from yelling at everyone to just shut the fuck up and go home already, there was a jack hammer at work on his skull.  
  
A few aspirins had taken care of it somewhat, reducing it to a dull throb instead of a piercing ache. Too bad aspirin couldn't diminish other aches.  
  
He ran a hand through his mussed hair and sighed as he reached his floor. He couldn't wait to take a long, hot shower, presumed immediately by sliding under warm, silky sheets. Maybe a nice cold beer, he thought as he turned his key, or some of that left-over cannelloni Ma had sent over, or....  
  
He stopped dead in his tracks as he opened the apartment door to find what he least expected.  
  
"Em?"  
  
"One and only, Sweetie."  
  
Head occupying one armrest and ankles the other, Emmett bounded from his restful position on the couch and trotted giddily across the room to envelope Michael in a warm hug.  
  
Michael hugged him back, looking across his shoulder at the coffee table - swamped with every kind of junk food and take-out imaginable.  
  
"What's all..." Michael gestured with his arms to encompass what used to be a coffee table, "this?"  
  
"Well, I thought since your gorgeous husband-to-be isn't going to be in till late, and Hunter's out with friends, I'd come over and keep you a little company!" Emmett collapsed on the couch with a flourish, giving Michael a toothy grin.  
  
Michael stood there, unable to keep the suspicion from sharpening his gaze. What was Em up to?  
  
"C'mon! Kick back, relax! I got all our favorites - lemon bars for you, those delicious chocolate Stud Muffins for me, a few of our favorite movies....I thought we could relive a night from our past. Like all those times, when the tricks had come and gone - pun intended - and we'd just stay up till late, swapping big dick stories and stuffing ourselves like Thanksgiving turkeys...what'd'ya say?" Emmett patted the couch cushions invitingly, bouncing on his own like a hyper 3-year-old.  
  
"Em...this is really sweet of you...and there's nothing I'd like more than to have another night like that...but our plane leaves at eight in the morning tomorrow and I have to get some sleep. You'd think the store had a sign on it that said 'Free Blowjobs'. It was a fucking mad house." Michael followed Emmett's lead, collapsing on the couch beside him and covering his eyes with one hand.  
  
"Honey - I know JUST what you need." Emmett leaped from the couch, springing across the room to dig through the bag he had left by the door.  
  
Michael peeked out from under his fingers, brows knitted in wary curiosity coupled with fatigue.  
  
"Em...if you think I'm gonna let you stick two cucumbers on my eyes or any of that nasty facial mud from Africa..."  
  
Emmett placed an indignant hand on his slim hips and held up a small, blue bottle.  
  
"This 'nasty facial mud from Africa' happens to be _the_ best there is. At least it better be...at $50 a bottle. And, it just so happens to be specially formulated for brightening the complexion of a bride before her wedding day...."  
  
Michael sent Emmett a withering glare, but Emmett, to his dismay, wasn't affected in the least.  
  
"....and the vitamin C beautifies, purifies, and tightens...fabulous combination of adjectives, don't you think?"  
  
"Em...shouldn't you be experimenting on Ted? Not me?"  
  
"He's working late." Which was a slight alteration of the truth, but it was duly justified in this situation. "Seems like both our husbands have ditched us tonight, huh? Now - get your hands off your face and lets do something about this complexion of yours. You look worn out, sweetie. And not in that good 'after sex' way."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Oh, don't worry...I'll have that gorgeous pale skin of yours practically glowing by the time I'm finished with you. Now, lie back, and relax."  
  
Michael huffed, deciding to just give in. What could it hurt? Besides, having a little company would be nice, actually - he hadn't been seeing much of Ben lately, and he tried not to think too hard on why that didn't seem right - not at all right, especially considering that they were now engaged, so to speak. Emmett was one of the few people he felt the most at ease with, so this couldn't be so bad.  
  
"JESUS! What the fuck is in that shit?" Michael flinched when the cold, slimy cream made contain with his skin - and nearly hurled when the smell reached his nose.  
  
It was somewhere between dead fish and rotten peaches.  
  
"God knows, but it works like a charm!" Emmett said cheerily, as he continued to lather the green, pasty cream onto Michael's face, not exactly succeeding in restraining himself from laughing at Michael's comically scrunched up features.  
  
"I'll just have to take your word for it...but I swear to God, if it turns me green or something..."  
  
"Michael...." Em's voice held a concerned note that caused Michael to open one eye.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Where did you get these bruises? On your neck? I didn't know Ben liked it rough!" Em's tone turned playful, once he realized they were love bites.  
  
Michael froze. He'd totally forgotten about them. People at the store - for the most part - weren't nosy enough to pay any heed, and Hunter had merely shook his head knowingly. Thinking Ben did it.  
  
Oh, shit - Ben. What was he going to tell Ben? He'd left before he had woken this morning. Had he seen them? He knew they hadn't been there the night before - they had been merely red marks. And Ben had been too tired (or so he kept repeating) and in a too big of hurry to leave Babylon to even notice.  
  
Michael felt the bitter taste of panic mop up every ounce of saliva from his mouth. How in the hell was he going to explain this? He didn't even remember Brian sucking that hard...but then, his skin was so fair and sensitive that a meager pinch would guarantee a small bruise.  
  
Shit, shit, shit.  
  
At Emmet's questioning gaze from his lack of response, he lowered his eyes and bit his bottom lip. He never could keep a poker face.  
  
"Sweetie...it WAS Ben that did it, right?" Em had finished coating Michael's skin, and flipped the top of the bottle closed, never taking his eyes off Michael's troubled features.  
  
When Michael didn't respond, Emmett's mind went into over-drive. Surely Michael wouldn't...  
  
"Honey, you're not saying - "  
  
"No Em. I didn't sleep with another man."  
  
That answer only troubled Emmett more. If he hadn't, then why did he look so ashamed? So_...scared_?  
  
"Oh my God...Michael...did someone...did someone take advantage of you?" Face etched in horror, Em raised a hand to his mouth, and the other to clasp Michael's.  
  
"No, no, no. Nothing like that." Michael squeezed Emmett's hand lightly in reassurance, meeting Emmett's worried gaze in full before closing his eyes in defeat.  
  
"Michael...you know you can tell me anything, but only if you want to. I'm always here to listen. But...you're not acting like yourself...and last night, when you came back from the bathroom, you - "  
  
"It was Brian, Em." Michael's voice was barely above whisper. He burrowed into the warmth of the couch, hugging a gaudy pillow tightly against his chest, as if seeking protection from an unseen force.  
  
"What did you say?" Emmet couldn't have looked more surprised if someone had punched him square in the gut. This was the last thing he had been expecting, although he couldn't understand why he hadn't figured it out already - the only one who could get Michael _this_ upset was Brian. And he'd heard them fighting last night, hence the reason he had decided to check up on him tonight, but still....it couldn't....  
  
"It was Brian." Michael's eyes fluttered closed as he repeated the words, but not before Emmett glimpsed the brown eyes glistening with unshed tears, elicited by the pain of a fresh memory.  
  
"Brian......Kinney?" He was still unable to believe it. Michael said he hadn't slept with another man....but then, Brian wasn't just another man.  
  
"For God's sake Em, how many Brian's do we know?!" Michael's voice was exasperated more than angry, choked with frustration.  
  
"Oh, Sweetie, I'm...I'm so sorry. I had no idea. When?"  
  
"When what? Last night, of course."  
  
"But...you went home with Ben last night."  
  
"Of course I did."  
  
Emmett furrowed his brow in confusion. It all made sense now - or...not. They'd been fighting in the bathroom because they had finally slept with each other, but, dear Lord, how long had it been going on?  
  
"But the marks..."  
  
Michael sat up suddenly, massaging his throbbing temple with thumb and index finger. How had he gotten himself into this fucking mess? How did Brian, the man he would die for, succeed so glamorously in systematically and repeatedly fucking up his life?  
  
"Em, like I said, I didn't sleep with anyone. Nothing happened."  
  
"_Something_ happened. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. I'm not here to pry. I'm here as a friend."  
  
"I'm sorry...I just...I don't..." Michael wrapped his arms around his body, as if attempting to escape by folding in upon himself. Tears began to flow.  
  
The big brother instinct kicking in almost immediately, Emmett gathered Michael to him, and allowed his friend the freedom to cry on a sympathetic shoulder, rubbing his back in small, soothing circles. Whatever had happened, it had Michael more shaken and lost than Emmett had ever seen him before.  
  
After a few moments, Michael pulled back, starting to wipe at his tears with the backs of his hands, but thinking better of it when he remember the gooey state of his face.  
  
Emmett sat silently and patiently, giving Michael time to say what he needed. He resisted the urge to reach out and grab a muffin to nibble on in attempt to abate his suspense - now was not the time to be thinking of food.  
  
"He followed me into the bathroom last night. He...we...almost...we almost fucked right then and there. But I stopped him. I didn't understand why he was doing it. I didn't know if it was because of his job, or Justin...or if maybe..." Michael hesitated, afraid of how foolish he might sound. He'd given everyone the idea - and not misleadingly, for he really had felt that way - that he was over Brian Kinney. So what was this going to sound like?  
  
Emmett's voice was soft and venturing as he spoke. "That maybe, he might be trying to tell you something?"  
  
"Something like that. I just don't know Em. I've never felt so many feelings from him before, never been able to _not_ know what was on his mind...and it just overwhelmed me, and I think I might've said or done the wrongs things. He was like himself, but yet, he wasn't...I was confused...and..."  
  
"You haven't done anything you should feel ashamed of, sweetie. Brian's been doing this for how many years? Don't let him spoil your ideal of happiness, but don't ignore your gut feeling, either. You can't listen to me, or your Ma, or anyone - you've got to listen to yourself. What does your heart tell you?"  
  
Michael hesitated, pulling at his lower lip with white teeth. His eyes unfocused in thought, and for a brief moment Emmet though he might voice second thoughts about wedding Ben.  
  
"That I still love Ben, and that we've come to far to let my uncertainty or my feelings for Brian screw it up. But...oh God...I'm afraid I've lost him, Em. I've never seen him look like that before. And we said such...stupid, hurtful things to each other. Things we didn't mean, but can never take back."  
  
"Have you talked to him today?"  
  
"No. I tried once, but his cell phone was turned off. I don't think I can see him right now."  
  
"Then don't. Make him come to you, for once. He owes you that. No matter what his motivations, it was wrong for him to put you in this situation three days before you marry Ben. Please sweetie....don't let him ruin this for you."  
  
"I'm not." Michael leaned his against Em's shoulder, grateful for the words, for any logical reasoning at this point.  
  
"Fuck. I feel like an idiot, sitting here like a scene from Days of Our Lives with this green crap all over my face."  
  
Emmett chuckled, pulling Michael to his feet and leading him towards the bathroom.  
  
"I think it's been long enough. Wash it off with some cold water. What time will Ben be home?" Emmett glanced at his watch as Michael scrubbed at his face.  
  
"'Bout 30 minutes. He said 9:30."  
  
"What are you going to tell him?"  
  
Michael froze momentarily, rinsed the last of the cream off his face and took the fluffy white towel from Emmett's outstretched hand.  
  
"The truth. I'll just have to tell him the truth. There's not a lot of excuses I can make up for these, huh?" He touched the three small bruises as he spoke, fighting another onslaught of tears.  
  
"Are you sure - "  
  
"I'm not sure about anything right now, Em, except that I've got to tell him the truth. It shouldn't change a thing between us. He knows how I feel. I still love him, and I still want to marry him."  
  
Emmett bit the inside of his mouth to keep himself from saying anything - it was obvious that Michael was trying to convince himself of his own words. He decided to change the subject; lighten the mood before Ben came home and Michael was faced with the inevitable. He moved to stand behind Michael, looking over his shoulder and into the small bathroom mirror that he had primped and preened in front of many a mornings.  
  
"See?! Look at that luminous skin that was just dying to be uncovered."  
  
"Yeah, well, it's the only luminous thing about me right now."  
  
"Oh, don't be silly. A day from now, you're going to be walking the streets of Boston in style, hunky husband in tow, basking in the glow of romantic love."  
  
Michael turned suddenly, brown eyes large with unease.  
  
"I'm scared, Em."  
  
"Pre-nuptial jitters? Everyone has those, sweetie."  
  
"Not that. I'm scared of losing the two people I love. I'm scared of not making the right decision, and it being the biggest, dumbest mistake I'll ever make. I can't lose either of them, Em."  
  
Emmett was suddenly at a loss for words. What did one say to such a statement? Twelve years of witnessing the intense bond that was Brian and Michael, and still, he had no words to describe to it, no definite way to explain the complexity of their commitment to one another. He couldn't tell Michael to just forget Brian - that would never happen, no matter what heinous crime Brian committed - nor could he say 'go for it', in fear that Michael would be rejected once again; but this time, to lose Ben in the process. So, best to stay on the current course, because no matter what they said or did - they would never leave each other.  
  
"Your not going to lose anyone, sweetie. You're going to get on that plane with Ben in the morning, and you're going to arrive in Massachusetts; and by Monday evening - you are going to be married and having the time of your life. I only wish a could be there to see you." Em laid an affectionate hand on Michael's cheek, smiling with encouragement.  
  
"Me too. It's going to feel weird not having you guys there."  
  
Em was going to make a joke along of the lines of how it was probably better they weren't going to be there, because Brian would probably 'speak now' instead of 'forever holding his peace', but that was a _bad_ joke to crack at the moment.  
  
"If there's anything you need me to do, like packing, cleaning...?"  
  
"Everything that can be packed has been already. Hunter's watching the store, Ma's getting my mail for me..." He cringed slightly, "I think we've got everything."  
  
"Are you sure about Hunter? And the store, I mean."  
  
"A few months ago I would've been insane to leave him with so much as a plant I cared about, but he's really changed. He wants this responsibility, and we have to let him know we trust him. He's seventeen, after all. Plus, Vic's gonna be there to help out, so that's a reassurance. It's not a problem, and I think he'll actually enjoy it."  
  
"Well, if you have faith in him, so do I. Now - what do you say we keep that poor lonesome food over there some company, shall we?"  
  
For thirty minutes they ate and reflected back on the good ole days, thinking back on all the hilarious times they had spent with one another, constantly into mischief and scrapping to get by - but always there for one another. Michael laughed and joked and seemed to genuinely appreciate his company, but Emmett still could not shake the feeling that something was desperately wrong with him; for his normally bright, cheerful eyes were almost in another time and place, haunted and hollow - as if something was eating away at his very soul.  
  
Except it wasn't just 'something' - it was Brian Kinney. It infuriated Emmett that he could be so blasé about Michael's feelings - either tell Michael how you really feel or let him live his own life. Or, as Deb would so colorfully put it - shit or get off the pot.

Emmett had been torn about what advice to give Michael - he didn't want to see him turn away a year and a half of a growing relationship for a few cryptic words from Brian. He wasn't about to try and guess Brian Kinney's motives, but he knew he was tired of Brian giving Michael mixed signals. He also knew, all to well at times, that Brian felt more than simple 'platonic love' for his best friend, but just how much more, he wasn't about to risk a guess. But he WAS going to pay said person a visit once Michael was out of town, and give him a long overdue piece of his flaming gay mind.

"Dude, aren't you guys a little old for pajama parties?" Both men, in the midst licking their fingers and giggling like a pair of fifth graders, turned at Hunter's voice. 

"The day I'm too old for any kind of party is the day I'm no longer queer...which is never, by the way," Em said proudly. Michael shook his head with a chuckle and began to clear the coffee table of empty boxes and wrappers.  
  
Hunter unslung his backpack from his shoulder, throwing Em a dubious glance as he grabbed a soda from the fridge. He still couldn't quite figure out the flamboyant man that was one of his foster parent's closest friends, but he definitely liked him and the way he would rib him like a younger brother. It was a nice feeling.  
  
"You hungry? Em brought pizza and there's some left over's in there."  
  
"Nah. I ate earlier, with some friends. You're not supposed to eat carbs after seven, you know."  
  
Michael winced unconsciously, the remark causing Brian's face to appear in his mind. For the entire day, every little thing had caused him to think of Brian, to see the beautiful hazel eyes. It was like he was 14 again, and he hated it. Hated how helpless he felt.  
  
"Just 'friends'? Not maybe, one special _girl_ friend?" Michael winked at Hunter as he stuffed the empty pizza box into the garbage can.  
  
Em perked up, catching Michael's wink.  
  
Michael and Ben had known for months now that Hunter preferred girls, and that he was still exploring the sexual aspect of his young life. In the most remote corners of their minds they had expected such a twist, considering Hunter's past, but weren't prepared for it. Michael was still nervous with the thought of guiding a straight, or even bisexual teen - he wanted only the best for Hunter, and he seriously doubted his aptitude when it came to straight relationships.  
  
"Say what?" Emmet teased, cupping a hand to his ear. "Have we found a special lady? Do tell."  
  
Hunter actually blushed, downing the rest of his soda quickly before moving to the couch.  
  
"No. Maybe. No. Like I'm going to tell you, the biggest blabbermouth in Pittsburgh."  
  
Emmett placed a hand over his chest in feigned shock.  
  
"Moi? A blabbermouth? Michael, what sort of things have you been telling this child?"  
  
"The title 'Gossip of Pittsburgh' is already taken by Ma." Michael coolly intercepted  
Hunter's grab for the TV remote, reaching it a fraction of a second before him and wriggling it admonishingly.  
  
"Nuh uh. No TV for you. You've got to get up and go to work in the morning, remember?"  
  
Hunter rolled his eyes, but walked towards his room in defeat.  
  
"Fine, fine. I'll leave you two fags to your slumber party."  
  
"Good night, little workin' man!" Emmet called out, right before Hunter closed his door, a mix of exasperation and amusement on his young face.  
  
"Almost like needling Brian. I just love deflating cynical sarcasm."  
  
Christ, did everyone have to keep mentioning Brian tonight?  
  
"Yeah, well, he's got no shortage of that." Michael prayed his voice wasn't wavering, that his eyes weren't watery. All he wanted to do, no matter how childish the notion, was to crawl into his bed, alone, and cry. Just cry...until all his confusion and heartache was flushed from his body as physically and furiously as the hot, bitter tears he knew he would shed. But he couldn't. He had ugly reality to face. And a future husband, who was due home any minute.  
  
"Michael?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"I said, are you okay? You looked really peaked there for sec, sweetie."  
  
"Yeah. I'm fine. Like I said, busy day at the store." Michael passed a hand through his dark hair, smiling weakly before he moved to the kitchen, bracing his arms on either side of the sink. Seconds later he felt gentle hands lightly grasp his biceps.  
  
"Michael, please. I can see it in your eyes, how this is affecting you. It will destroy you, piece by piece, if you let it."  
  
Michael snorted disdainfully, eyes fixed upon the cold stainless steel of the sink, observing it idly. So very cold, and lifeless. "Is it that obvious?"  
  
"I'm afraid it is, hon." He turned Michael around to face him, not surprised to see a silent tear snake from the corner of one eye. His expression, however, was stony - undefinable. Like that of a man who had just been exiled from his own country.  
  
"I know you love them both, and that you would give up everything you are for either of them. Do what this..." He laid a hand upon Michael's chest, over his heart, "is telling you. Don't even try to convince yourself with the same old 'if, ands, or but's'...time is past for that. Its time to be honest with yourself, to be honest with them. Walk the path that _you_ choose. Avoid the road with the signs that have 'regret' written on them in big read letters - they're all dead ends, Michael, and you deserve so much more than a dead end."  
  
He placed a parting kiss on Michael's forehead, wishing he possessed the eloquent words to ease Michael's confusion, but he knew that in the end, the only person who could do that was Michael himself. The only person who could choose was Michael.  
  
"I love you, sweetie. Call if you need anything." All he received in response was a gracious nod of Michael's head before it was ducked in attempt to keep him from seeing anymore of the raw pain within. He knew Michael hated to cause the people he cared about to share in his heartaches, to pity for him. So he left quietly, the sudden stillness hanging over the usually animated apartment like a stagnant, oppressive cloud.  
  
Michael heard the door close, and let out a ragged breath, Emmett's words still echoing through his dulled senses. _They're all dead ends, Michael. _  
  
He didn't know how long he had stood there, lost within the farthest recesses of his consciousness, violently denying his most carefully guarded thoughts; when he heard Ben. Righting himself quickly, he pretended to wash dishes that weren't there, keep on filling the role; pretending to play in a world that wasn't there, and never would be.  
  
But it was too late now. He was trapped in his own paragon of domestic happiness. He loved Hunter, he loved Ben - but this was not where he wanted to be in 20 years. The realization hurt more than any physical wound ever could. He had always, since he was a gawky, nerdy, 14-year-old boy, knew what he wanted for his future; but over the years of repetitive, stinging rejection the dream had atrophied, had become buried and smothered underneath new - but far less desirable - hopes and dreams. Now, the dusty memories and fantasies of the only future he had ever wanted for himself had bubbled to the surface, scorching his very being and mocking the reality before him.  
  
"Hey, baby." Arms, strong arms, encircled him from behind, and he was engulfed with a crisp, familiar scent. Try as he might, the combination of sensations did little to soothe him, to reaffirm his place in life.  
  
He melted back into Ben's hard body, closing his eyes. He loved this man, and this man would never reject him, never deny him the commitments they had pledged to one another. How could he betray him? _Now_? He couldn't. He simply couldn't. It would be to much to bear to see pain in the ocean blue of Ben's gentle eyes, knowing he had put it there, simply because he could not let go of an impractical dream. Or, he thought bitterly, as others would call it - an obsession.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"You and Em have a good time? I'm glad you had company. I'm sorry I couldn't be here tonight."  
  
"S'okay. We had a great time. I missed you, though."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah." Michael turned around, mentally bracing himself for the confession he was about to make.  
  
"Michael...what...?" Ben couldn't decide which disturbed him more - the bruises of Michael's skin, or the internal ones, deep within his amber eyes. The two combined brought four syllables instantly to mind. Brian Kinney.  
  
"Brian."  
  
At Michael's whispered confession; confusion, anger, hurt, then resignation haunted across Ben's features, until eventually, all other emotions were stifled out by the cold, gripping sensation of fear. He knew his eyes reflected it, that it was etched upon every line of his body. Had he finally lost Michael to Brian? Was it time? It couldn't be. He and Michael had just begun to really live with each other, to learn the other's little habits and tendencies. Brian couldn't take him away now, yet he always knew this day would come. He felt a sharp squeeze within his chest, until it was almost painful to breath. The only thing that kept him grounded was the love pouring from Michael's beautiful brown eyes. Arms snaked around his waist, pulling him close.  
  
"Nothing happened, Ben...nothing that matters." Michael cupped Ben's face gently within his hands, willing the hurt and fear away with the tactility of touch and gaze. "What matters is this : I choose you."  
  
Everything around him dissolved into a blissful haze as Michael's lips touched his own, sealing the spoken words with physical connection. He let the tension glide away like melted ice as he leaned into Michael, incapable of speech and paralyzed with the most intense form of joy and relief he had ever experienced.  
  
He felt himself being lead towards the bedroom, and he continued to stare at Michael with awe, his steps light, as if he were floating. This man, Michael Novotny, the man he had been looking for his entire life - had chosen him.  
  
As he lowered Michael onto the bed, he briefly wondered why Michael began to avert his gaze, why he didn't look as euphoric as he knew he must. It didn't matter, he thought, as he began to replace Brian's marks of possession with his own.  
  
Michael was his.

* * *

Steam veiled the room in a transparent cloud of vacillating wisps, curling and unfurling in sinuous motions. The foggy vapor was a perfect simile for Brian Kinney's current state of mind.  
  
He stood with his back to the spray of the shower nozzle, allowing the water to course down his tilted head and through his thick hair, the pressure fanning his bangs along his forehead. Rivulets of water poured down his face and collected in pearl-like beads upon his slightly parted lips and long eyelashes.  
  
It was truly a hedonistic sight to behold, had anyone been present to appreciate the sensuality so aptly displayed.  
  
But he was alone, silently willing the heated water to wash away more than sweat and body oils.  
  
He reached back a hand and ceased the flow of water, unable to bear its heat any longer. Water sprayed against the clear surface of the shower walls as he shook his head violently, freeing it from the weight of moisture.  
  
Ever since he was a small child, he had loved water - the feel of it, the power of it, the sensation of freedom one recevied from diving into its cool depths. In his youth, bath time had been the highlight of his evening, even though Joan had always been there to coldly remind him that bathtime was not for playing. He didn't have the rubber duckies or the colorful, different sized cups, nor the squeaky picture books that floated - she didn't believe in them. Bathtime was a chore, a daily ritual, much like everything else in her empty life. There was no turtle shaped sprinkler to dig out of the basement when summer arrived, no swimming pool with animals on the sides to assemble on the lawn. Still, he had found a way to have fun with nothing, to make something out of nothing, which perhaps explained his aptitude in advertising. He refused to allow her or Jack to take away the simple fascinations of life - but that had been the indifferent obstinence of a young child, which fades. He proved no different. At ten years of age, he had lost what little hold and enjoyment he had on life. His innocence wilted - stifled by Jack's unremitting violence and cruel words - and replaced by a bitter cynicism far to pronounced for his age.  
  
He had quickly abandoned the 'make due' attitude of a child, and replaced it with a hatred of all people and ideals that expounded love and the establishment of family as the cure to all the ailments and predicaments of life. It was bullshit. Kitty pools, random hugs and adoring kisses, cook-outs on the patio, conversations on the porch and utter bullshit.  
  
Other families had those things - he'd seen them, if only briefly and in glimpses from the various moves his family endured - and he had envied the children who lived the illusion of the perfect American life. With age, his sharp young mind had quickly discerned that it was all a facade, a cheesy advertisement.  
  
He'd still wondered, in those last days of his young life, in which he had clung to the hope of finding love, if it was because of him, if he was simply unable or unworthy to earn the love of his parents or anyone else. He couldn't count the times he had sat in that humid church and listened to priests utter verbose sermons declaring the importance and wonderfulness of love...yet he had never seen it, never felts it 'wondrous power'. The very people who screamed it from pulpits and rooftops proved to be the most cold and unloving of all; his own mother, for instance. Love was a concept he could not grasp or even experience, therefore his instinct told him to fear - to hate - the unknown. And that was exactly what he had done; with a caustic, 'fuck you' smile firmly in place. He would never let love touch him - shouldn't be that difficult, he'd mused, considering he'd lived the majority of his life without it.  
  
Then he met Michael. Mikey.  
  
He reached for a towel, pushing his face into the soft, clean smelling cotton. Exiting the shower, he admired his lithe form in the mirror. He stood there for a moment, tracing the sluices of water that ran down his torso with clouded eyes. Yes, as a little boy he had loved water. But even a love for something as simple as that could be killed.  
  
Michael had rekindled it - had rekindled everything in him. His life literally began at fourteen, when his eyes captured a gentle gaze of brown.  
  
He had taught Michael how to swim, one hazy summer morning, shortly after they had met. He knew he if looked in the mirror, he would be smiling from the memories evoked; a ridiculous, sentimental smile, no doubt. The way Michael had trusted him...no one had ever done that. The way he had so easily confided in him - like he knew Brian would never tell - that he was nervous and embarrassed that he didn't know how to swim and was afraid of drowning. How he'd been so pathetically shy, blushing beet red when he had stripped down to his swimming trunks.  
  
Brian loved swimming once again after that day, but only with Michael. Everything became 'only with Michael'. He would smile an earnest smile, share a painful memory, or give a random hug or adoring kiss - only with Michael. Because Michael figuratively and literally kept him from drowning, and somehow became the exception to his life-guide list of 'nevers' and 'don't evers', and consequently, the one person ever allowed to see behind his fortification of mental walls and emotional shields.  
  
He secured the towel low around his hips after rubbing himself dry, his hair a wet, tousled mess. Michael would tell him he looked 'scruffy looking'. He cocked his head to one side, examining his profile. He lightly touched the corner of one eye, contemplating if it was at all possible to age in one night, just from the strain of mere words. He even _felt_ older than he did last night. Worn out. Tired.  
  
"Fuck it."  
  
He reached angrily for his toothbrush, making sure not to grab Justin's. That would just be gross.  
  
A sudden, insistent knocking at his loft door caused his hand to zig-zag and the toothpaste to miss the toothbrush, leaving a squiggling trail across the marble sink. He ignored the fact that his hands had been shaky since last night.  
  
"Shit."  
  
He felt adrenaline flood his veins, and his heart began to beat wildly. That couldn't it? How could Michael possibly forgive him, come back to him, after the awful things he had said last night?  
  
He jerked a pair of black jeans over his still damp legs, nearly falling flat on his ass twice in the process. He remembered the ratty state of his hair, and combed long fingers through it hastily.  
  
The weird knocking continued, and his heart fell as he padded towards the door. Only one person knocked like _that_, and it wasn't the one who he desperately wanted to see at his door.  
  
"Deb."  
  
"I'm sorry its so damn late, but I was on my way home and needed to stop by."  
  
Christ, why did she look so fucking forlorn? _Needed to stop by... _Deb never came by his loft unless it was something of importance, or unless she wanted to finagle him into doing some kind of ludicrous good deed that he didn't have a flying fuck to do with in the first place. To say the least, when Debbie came to his loft, the reason was rarely a pleasant drop-in for tea and crumpets.  
  
He felt a plunge in the pit of his stomach, prompted by Debbie's offbeat tone and bereft appearance..._Holy fuck, is it Michael? _  
  
"Do I need to come after someone else comes?" she dead-panned, taking in Brian's state of undress and furrowed brow. She peered past him, no doubt expecting to see the bed writhing with men.  
  
He stepped aside, realizing he'd been standing at the door like Frankenstein.  
  
"No. It's just me. Come on in."  
  
Debbie walked in hesitantly, still looking around as if she expected to find a couple of guys going at it in the corner. Her eyes darted across the expanse of the loft floor, then settled to meet Brian's in a wry smile. She smacked her gum loudly.  
  
"Last time I was in here, half of Pittsburgh was fucking on the floor."  
  
He ignored her, biting the tip of his thumb boredly as he draped his bare torso across the cool stainless steel of the kitchen island, feeling his shoulders relax at her abrupt turn of nonchalance. It was a reflex born of a bizarre, deeply rooted instinct that caused Michael to immediately spring to mind on the rare occasions that Deb graced his doorstep.  
  
"What sin have I committed _this_ time towards the good of mankind to be honored with your presence on this lovely evening?"  
  
She lifted an eyebrow, ignoring him in turn and walking over to face him from the opposite side of the island.  
  
"Justin told me."  
  
God love the woman - so straight to the point.  
  
"Told you what?"  
  
She chuckled and smiled. "Don't play dumb with me. It may work with Michael, but it sure as hell doesn't work with me."  
  
Alarm flared briefly in Brian's consciousness, but was gone as quickly as it had surfaced. There was no way she could know about last night. He had told nobody, and he knew Mikey like the back of his hand - and he would tell no one, lest of all his mother. Still, he marveled at how well Debbie did not know her own son.  
  
"So you're coming here to harangue me, per usual, for my flawed judgement. Thanks for the concern Deb, but I'll do whatever I goddamn please."  
  
After an obstinate stare, he retreated to the fridge, tossing her a sweet smile over his shoulder.  
  
"Would you like something fizzy?" His angelic tone was a complete spin from his sharp words seconds prior.  
  
Deb straightened, placing her her hands on her generous hips, recognizing the play on words spoken long ago.  
  
"I'm fizzy enough, thanks. What's got your cock in a knot?"  
  
He laughed, popping the cap off his beer and stifling his chuckle with a long swig.  
  
"My dick is just fine. How's yours?"  
  
Deb stared at him, challenging him wordlessly with her eyes. Something had his feathers severely ruffled; his every sense on the defensive. She knew this version of Brian Kinney entirely too well.  
  
"Listen, I don't know what the hell crawled up your ass, but I came over to give you my goddamn support, if you'd only keep that sarcastic trap of yours shut long enough for me to get a fucking word in."  
  
Brian boredly rolled the cap of his beer between his thumb, looking up at Debbie expectantly through his eyelashes.  
  
"Well aren't you going to say something?!"  
  
"I'm keeping my sarcastic trap shut, as ordered," he said flatly, making sure his tone was brimming with indifference.  
  
Debbie's jaw worked for a moment, then she raised a hand and pointed a red tipped finger in his direction.  
  
"Maybe you don't know it, but you made the best decision of your life when you agreed to go with Sunshine."  
  
Brian bit the inside of his mouth and stared down at the bottle cap, refusing to show how much that comment hurt, refusing to let the forthcoming arguments spill forth from the tip of his tongue. Let her say her piece. It might give him some ammunition for the future.  
  
"He needs you, and you need him." She began to pace in front of the kitchen area like a caged animal, her predictability eliciting a sinister smirk from Brian. "This'll be good for him - and you too. He was heartbroken when you turned him down, and I was madder than hell. But you surprised me. I don't know what made you change your mind, but I'm happy you did. Because you would've lived the rest of your life regretting that you'd let him go."  
  
Brian felt his blood boiling. He couldn't listen to this bullshit for much longer. He'd tolerated it for nearly twenty years - tolerated her putting him down, only to jerk him right back up when it suited her purposes. It was no fucking wonder Michael had no confidence.  
  
"You can't go on like this, letting Sunshine think that - "  
  
That was it. End of the rope. "Why, Deb?" He interrupted, annoyance lacing every syllable.  
  
"Why what?" Debbie screeched, both arms shooting up in exasperation.  
  
"I don't need a fucking little pep talk. Why did you come here? To convince yourself?"  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?!"  
  
Brian swiveled on his bar stool to face her fully, the corner of his lip caught between his teeth as he smiled.  
  
"You can't hurt my wittle feelings, Deb. You don't have to build me up before you tear me down."  
  
Debbie shook her head slowly, acknowledging that her charade had been busted. She stalked towards Brian, until her face was a breath away from his. Brian didn't move a muscle.  
  
"I don't want you telling him." Her voice was low and raspy - dangerous and intimidating for someone who did not know her well. "He's finally made a life of his own, found someone to be with who loves him. I'll be damned if I'm going to stand by and watch you destroy it. Because you know all to well that no matter who is in his life, he'll always run to you."  
  
Debbie backed off, finding the stool across from Brian and lowering herself onto it, never breaking the tension of the heated glare between them.  
  
"He's leaving in the morning, and won't be back for three weeks. If he finds out, we both know what'll happen. He'll drop Ben like a rock and rush back here, begging you not to go."  
  
"I'm glad you think Mikey is so selfish."  
  
"It's not a matter of selfishness. It's a matter of what he can't have. Of what's not returned."  
  
Brian swallowed, his head raised defiantly. He thought of the time and effort he had wasted, seeking to earn Debbie's love and pride. He didn't want it now.  
  
"It's a matter of him looking for something that isn't there."  
  
"Mikey's a big boy, Deb. When are you gonna realize that?"  
  
"Don't talk to me about 'realizing' things about Michael. Any chance you ever had with him was lost years ago."  
  
Brian barked out a laugh, but the sound a scornful sneer. He couldn't say anything to counter her - she had just voiced his deepest fear. The very thing that was causing him to flee. Still, the other part of him, the rational part that wasn't corroded with cynicism, knew it was a lie.  
  
Debbie shook her head sadly, her face suddenly appearing much older than it was, the laugh lines more pronounced and her eyes regretful, and Brian instantly recognized the expression. Pity. It was all he could do not to crush the beer bottle between his fingers.  
  
"You believe what you want. But listen to me - he is not to know anything until that plane lands here in Pittsburgh three weeks and 12 hours from now, with a wedding band on his finger, you hear me?"  
  
Brian resisted the urge to deliver his trademark 'fuck.you.' right in her face. She wanted to play her little act, well, so could he. Except - no one ever saw the backstage in his play.  
  
Debbie took his silence in stride, beginning to look uncomfortable under Brian's undeciperheable gaze. Brian watched her squirm, relishing it.  
  
"He can call you, visit you, email you. Its time you two grew up."  
  
"You mean grew apart."  
  
"You are the one who's deciding to leave, buster. All I'm doing is trying to protect my baby, from getting fucked by Brian Kinney in the only way he knows. The only way he ever will."  
  
"For Christ sakes, Deb, give it a rest."  
  
"Not until you do. My ass ain't leaving this loft until you give me your word."  
  
"I don't give anyone my word." He enunciated each syllable pointedly - venomously adamant.  
  
Brian watched her smack her gum cockily, and he knew that her threat was not idle. This was Debbie at her finest - full out bitch-mode. Relentless and unmoving.  
  
"You are NOT going to fuck this up for him. You can _never_ give him what Ben has, and you don't even want to. Hell, you only talk about how much you hate any kind of relationship every fucking chance you get. You think Michael wants that? Huh? Do _you_ want him to have anything less than what he wants?"  
  
For the first time since their conversation, Brian lowered his head, shaking it softly in quiet acquiesce. He wanted - had always wanted - Michael to have everything he wanted and more.  
  
Memories from his childhood surfaced unbidden. Jack, telling him he was useless. Joan, rejecting his every gesture of love and affection.  
  
They didn't matter. Fuck the nay sayers. Only Michael, the one person who loved him unconditionally, who loved the real Brian Kinney - mattered to him. He may not be good enough for him - yet - but he could (and did) love Michael more than anyone else could possibly comprehend.  
  
"I thought so. I'm not telling you stop being his friend. I'm not telling you to never talk to him again. All I'm asking is for you to just let him have this with Ben, and go to LA. Go, and let him be, with Ben. He doesn't have to know, and you don't have to tell him. It's better this way."  
  
After a long silence, he felt a hand cup his cheek, but did not look up. He knew what was about to come, and he hated her for it.  
  
"I'm proud of you, kiddo. You take care of yourself, and of Sunshine."  
  
It was days before he was leaving for LA, yet she was already giving him her goodbye, her accursed blessing. He refused to return it, because he would be back. To prove that she, and everybody else, was wrong; so, so, wrong.  
  
_TBC....._


	5. Chapter Five

* * *

**Title:** Be My Downfall  
**Feedback:** This is my very first fic, so feedback means _alot_. Love it, hate it, let me know.  
**Pairing:** B/M, of course, with initial B/J, Be/M overtones  
**Rating:** R  
**Genre:** Angst, Romance, WIP  
**Summary: **Michael has some news for Brian. Brian can't cope, and pushes Michael - and himself - too far.  
**Special Thanks:** To my friends at livejournal and the Yahoo! list, which I like to refer to as my B/M family. :)  
**Spoilers:** Through Season 4  
**Warnings: **AU (only the plot - NOT the characters), WIP. And, er, its rather angsty. However, I promise when I say it has a very happy ending.  
**Disclaimer:** No profit is generated from this. QAF and Brian/Michael are not mine. _sniffsniff_  
  
_Author's Note : This chapter is very angsty, mildly depressing. Don't say you weren't warned. ;)  
___

_

* * *

_

**CHAPTER FIVE**  
  
"Thanks Teddy, you didn't have to do this you know," Michael said gratefully from the passenger's seat of Ted's silver convertible. "I know how busy you are."  
  
"Eh, its nothing. The least I can do to welcome home the two newly weds."  
  
Michael smiled, reflecting on the welcome surrealism of being tagged with the term 'newly wed' as he absently chewed on the tip of his Pepsi Freeze straw. Leaning towards the open window, he breathed in the warm, polluted October air. Definitely back in the Pitts. The realization sparked an involuntary mixture of remorse and contentment.  
  
Ted peered in the rear view mirror towards the cramped back seat, barely able to locate Ben's tolerant face amidst the pile of luggage he was buried in.  
  
"So how was Boston?"  
  
"It was great. As cultured and historical as I'd imagined it to be."  
  
Ted turned off at the exit ramp that would take them home, casting Michael a sidelong grin at Ben's automated response.  
  
"Better than great," Michael supplied. "As Em would say, it was fucking fabulous. Who would've thought Boston had so many great comic book stores? And the beach...God, when I'm old and grey, I definitely want to live on the beach."  
  
"Don't we all. No more Pittsburgh winters, think how great that would be."  
  
"I don't know, I think I'd kinda miss the snow after awhile. Boston was awesome, but still, there really is no place like home. Speaking of which, how is everyone? Amazing how out of the loop three weeks with your cell phone turned off will make you feel."  
  
Ted shifted in his seat, clearing his throat in a habitual gesture of nervousness that was entirely Theodore.  
  
"Fine, everyone's fine."  
  
"That's it? Just 'fine'? C'mon, its theoretically impossible that after I leave things get boring all of the sudden," Michael teased.  
  
"Well...things are, you know....fine."  
  
Michael exaggerated a frown at Ted's jittery tone, recognizing it as his customary, basket case approach to breaking some bad news.  
  
"What did Brian do now?" Michael's eyes shone with insight. He sighed deeply, passing a hand through his hair from exasperated habit, the movement causing sunlight to glint off the polished gold of his wedding band.  
  
"Uh..." Ted hesitated, eyes fixated intently on heavy traffic that seemed to exist only his imagination.  
  
Ben spoke up from his nest of luggage, and would have raised an arm; that is, if he could find any of his appendages. "Uh, Ted, you missed the turn."  
  
"Dammit! I can't talk when I'm driving. Makes me lose my concentration." He gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, his face going pale.  
  
Michael raised a questioning eyebrow, disconcerted by Ted's spontaneous need for silence. Had he said something wrong?  
  
"Are you okay? I can drive, if you need me to..."  
  
"No, no...that's not necessary. Just alot of traffic today. Must be because of the weekend. The majority of all wrecks occur on weekends, you know. And I think I might've ate something  
at the airport café that didn't agree with me."  
  
"Um, Ted...Teddy...you might want to get over..." Michael said, tone strained with alarm and eyes growing wide as he straightened in his seat, bracing himself for a bout of road rage.  
  
"Oh, shit. See? Silence. Must have silence," Ted murmured, moving into the opposite lane with all the determination of a World War II B-17 pilot on a deadly combat mission.  
  
Michael eyed his friend suspiciously, but Ted's gaze remained glued to the road, his shoulders hunched over the wheel. Michael wanted to know just what the hell was going on, but he wanted to get home in one piece even more.  
  
"Whatever you say. Just remember to drop me off at the diner." Michael tossed a reassuring smile back at Ben's dubious face, peeking out from amongst the luggage, then leaned his head against the seat, the warmth of the morning sun slowly lulling him to sleep.

* * *

"Miiiiichael.....Michael?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"We're here. You're back in the Pleasant Pitts. Honeymoon over."  
  
Michael rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heels of his hands, gradually realizing he was at the diner. He stretched catlike in the seat, unbuckling his seatbelt sluggishly.  
  
"Where's Ben? He didn't start singing, did he, and you left him by the side of the road?"  
  
"Christ, he sings?" Ted said, faking a horrified expression. Michael laughed through a yawn, working out the last of the kinks in his stiff body. "I dropped him off at your apartment first, since you where still alseep."  
  
"Why didn't you wake me?"  
  
"We tried. In case you forgot, you sleep like a fucking rock. Told us to 'go to hell'." Ted smiled fondly.  
  
"Oh. Sorry." Michael grinned sheepishly, then turned his head to take in the familiar scenery. Or, truthfully - to stall a little longer. He wasn't looking forward to the sqealing and ranting he knew he his mother would partake in. All he could hope for was that no one he knew had decided to eat lunch at the diner on this particular day - and everyone he knew ate lunch at the diner. Unfortunately.  
  
"Well, guess I better get going. Thanks for the ride, Teddy. See you at Babylon tonight?" They exchanged quick pecks on the cheek, then Michael stood to the side of the diner - taking great care to remain safely out of the vantage point of one certain occupant - and waved Ted off.  
  
Making sure he had not been spotted, he took his escape route, heading for his destination. The one he'd been thinking about for days.  
  
He had full intentions of greeting his mother, but he needed a walk first, to loosen his body and his mind. He also had a general idea of how unhappy she'd be that he hadn't called her but once, right after he and Ben had exchanged vows, for the entire length of their trip.  
  
There were far more important things that needed to be done - and said - first.  
  
He'd convinced himself into settling for the reasoning that Brian had had sufficient time to cool off, to get out of whatever weird funk he'd been stuck in three weeks ago. He himself had cooled off, and sorted out his badly shook up emotions. This incident would be no different than the many other times they had wandered too close to the invisible line between lovers and friends, always retreating in awkwardness and hardly speaking for days at a time. It was an eerily methodical cycle - after such an occurrence, they always - precise as clockwork - migrated back to each other as if nothing had ever happened. No words had to be spoken, no explanations made. It was a quiet acquiescence between intimate friends, as natural for them as the changing seasons.  
  
He was confident that this time would be no exception, even though he knew, deep down in the stubborn grasp of his primal consciousness, that what had occurred between them three weeks ago was vastly different from anything that had ever happened before. More so, the fact that Brian did not say goodbye to him before he left for Boston stung a little. Alot. He didn't know why, but it did. Maybe it was the thought that Brian might have possibly been okay with the fact that the bitter words spoken in Babylon's bathroom could have been the last they ever said to each other. Not that he was like Ted - always expecting something terrible to happen to him - but he and Brian had never, especially in their youth, let the sun rise on an argument. Because they didn't argue all that much in the first place, and because any heated disagreement that took place between them affected Brian adversely. Michael could continue functioning in his daily life; Brian could not. It tore him up in a way that only Michael understood, because only Michael knew, was allowed to know, the dark secrets of Brian's past. Which was perhaps why he was always quick to forgive Brian, to promptly return to his place at Brian's side. Because he knew if he didn't, it would be the catalyst of Brian's self-destruction.  
  
Or, he thought with a smirk, maybe it was just because he loved him so damn much.  
  
If only his friends knew the truth - being that Michael didn't 'run' to Brian - Brian ran to him. But, it didn't really matter, for he was willingingly the faithful keeper of Brian's deepest secrets and most fatal weaknesses, and had nothing to prove to anyone, not even Ben, when it came to his friendship with Brian.  
  
He stepped up his pace, already feeling the muscles in his legs beginning to uncoil. He grabbed his sunglasses from the front of his tee, sliding them on. It was beautiful day, cool fall air tinged with the warmth of the sun's weakening rays - maybe he could fit in a trip to the park with Brian for a little frisbee before the days end, if he didn't already have plans with Justin. For some reason, he felt so wound up with energy that he had to restrain himself from breaking into a jog. Goofing around with Brian always seemed to be the greatest way to channel excess energy, and had been since they were fourteen and consumed with more piss and vinegar than they knew what to do with. Michael secretly reveled in the knowledge that his presence gave Brian the same feeling of eternal youth that Brian's presence gave him.  
  
"Hey, Jeff," he greeted a tall blonde man who lived in Brian's building (and who was also a past fuck buddy), holding the door for him when he saw that his hands were full with cartons of beer. Brian had never liked the guy, bristling whenever Michael spoke to him. So Michael always spoke to him.  
  
"Thanks Mike."  
  
"No problem."  
  
He decided to skip the elevator, bounding up the stairs two at a time. He knocked at Brian's door, having abandoned the ritual of simply walking in, now that Justin was essentially, whether Brian wanted to admit it or not, living at the loft.  
  
"Brian, it's Michael."  
  
He smirked, waiting a few moments, having a pretty good guess at what Brian might be doing to occupy his Saturday afternoon.  
  
As if in deviant confirmation, a tan, muscular man with soft blue eyes opened the door, his chiseled chest glowing with perspiration in the dim light.  
  
Michael didn't bother trying to conceal his discomfort. Brian never let tricks answer his door.  
  
The cool gaze traveled languidly up Michael's form before meeting his eyes in an affable smile.  
  
"Can I help you?"  
  
Michael glanced over a sinewy shoulder, trying not to betray his growing apprehension.  
  
"Uh...is Brian here?" He didn't know what else to say. 'Where is he and why the fuck are you answering his door' might come off a little harsh. But, sometimes, subtlety simply wasn't possible, and only a direct frontal assault would serve the purpose.

Blue eyes narrowed for a moment, sculpted brows knitting together in puzzlement. Michael was inclined to simply brush past him, but thought best of it. Even though he looked to be in his early forties, the guy was built like a brick shithouse.  
  
"I'm sorry. I'm the only person that lives here. You might have the wrong apartment...?"  
_  
What the fuck?  
_  
"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Back up. I've been coming here for years. Unless the earth's dimensions shifted while I was away, Brian Kinney lives here." It was a statement, not a question; he didn't appreciate Brian's tricks fucking with him, not that Brian ever allowed it in the first place. This had to be some form of a twisted Kinney joke.  
  
It wasn't funny.  
  
Realization sparked in the blue eyes, and the man leaned against the loft door casually, flexing a generous bicep as he did so.  
  
"Ah...you're looking for Brian Kinney." He emphasized the last name, as if it singled out something extraordinary. _Gee, I wonder what? _  
  
The guy seemed genuine enough, so Michael restrained himself from rolling his eyeballs and settled for an agitated nod. Rude people seriously irked him, (which was quite ironic, considering that in the eyes of many, his best friend was the rudest of them all) so he strove to uphold his own philosophy, even if it was with smart aleck tricks.  
  
"He's the guy that sold me this place."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"About two weeks ago. Tall, brown hair, hazel eyes - totally hot. That who're lookin' for?"  
  
Michael realized his mouth was hanging open, and abruptly snapped it shut. He felt a tingling in his spine that was rapidly spreading to copiously numb the rest of his body.  
  
"Yeah, can't forget him," the man said, shaking his head softly in vague wonderment. "Said he was moving to LA. Big movie business or some shit like that. You a relative? No, no," He corrected himself hastily, straight white teeth spread in a lascivious smile, "I bet you're a trick."  
  
Michael grimaced at the assumption, jolted back to the moment by the seductive gleam in the ice blue eyes.  
  
"No, I'm not. I'm...I'm his best friend. You...he said...LA?" He uttered the last word softly, reluctantly, as if merely saying it would bring the roof crashing down upon him.  
  
"Yeah, that was all he said, though...rather secretive kind of guy - not that I blame him. But who doesn't give their best friend their new address?" he said lightly, staring down at the smaller man with unrestrained curiosity.  
  
The tingling in Michael's spine had drifted to his head now, filling his ears and consuming his senses with a dull ring. This had to be a mistake.  
  
This was Brian's loft...his home. He should be here, like always.  
  
"I don't know. Listen, I..." he ran an anxious hand through his hair to rest on his the nape of his neck, rubbing at his hairline in flustered distress. He stared down at the floor, brown eyes darkening with something that might have been pain as he shook his head softly in uncertainty, lost in a labyrinth of confusion.  
  
"Hey, you okay?" The man put a compassionate hand on Michael's shoulder, only to have it gently shrugged off.  
  
Michael raised his head, all traces of distress dissipated, replaced with an easy grin. "Yeah, just...a little shell shocked. Thanks for your help, ...?"  
  
"Grant."  
  
"...Grant." He turned to leave, but Grant stepped forward, hand outstretched towards the interior of the loft in supplication.  
  
"No need to rush off. You can come in, if you like. I was just...workin' out." His grin was suggestive and seductive, but not in a crudely predatory manner; a fact for which Michael was eternally grateful, given the awkward circumstance.  
  
He couldn't muster the capacity to verbally ward off the blatant invitation, so he simply raised his right hand and thumbed the gold band that wrapped around his ring finger, smiling weakly in apology. For some reason, Grant's gentle eyes reminded him of Ben's - so earnest and sincere - and he couldn't help himself but to be as considerate as he could, given the blow that had just been dealt to his unsuspecting consciousness.  
  
Shadows of disappointment in his eyes, Grant nodded in understanding, and Michael felt himself walking towards the elevator with heavy steps. Best not to take the stairs.

He leaned heavily against the wall, grateful for the support as he mulled over the best action to take. This was ridiculous - this was Brian's loft, and Brian should be here, like always. Michael had known it was on the market, but still...he never really thought Brian would actually sell it so improvidently. Would actually... His stomach fell, the feeling similar to the jolt felt on one of those crazy amusement park rides he used to go on as a kid.  
  
_Said he was moving to LA.  
  
_Refusing to allow himself time to even think about the several different things those six words could possibly mean, he reached blindly for the phone clipped to his back pocket, speed-dialing Brian's cell with diffident, trembling fingers. He nibbled at a thumb nail, rocking lightly on his toes, body and mind overcome with anxiety. _We're sorry, this number is no longer available. The service has been disconnected.  
  
_"Fuck!"  
  
He raised his arm, seconds away from heedlessly lobbing the source of the mechanized voice away from his ear and into the concrete wall, blind with anger and burgeoning shock, before he stopped himself short. He still needed it. Anger was not going to get him anywhere.  
  
Instead he moved the hand to his forehead, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut tightly against the pain that was seeping in through the fury. Why hadn't Brian told him? Why hadn't his friends told him? At that moment, he felt so abandoned, so...lost. More than anything, he felt cheated. Screwed over in a very bad way.  
  
Another attempt to protect poor Michael from the truth. Another perfect example of unprecedented Kinney selfishness.  
  
Never before had he wanted to kick that man's ass so badly in his life. Not after the escapade of his thirtieth birthday party, not the time he put E in their home economic teacher's coffee - not even the time Brian had handcuffed his half-naked, violently protesting self and dragged him to a raunchy orgy.  
  
Somehow he made it to the sidewalk outside Brian's apartment building - or, more precisely, Brian's _former _apartment building. Staring down at the LCD screen of the phone, clasped within a clammy deathgrip, he ignored various complaints as he unconsciously bumped into passersby. He took a shuddering breath as he pressed the pad of thumb against the send button.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Lindz."  
  
"Michael! When did you get back? Gus has been asking for you."  
  
Michael smiled as he heard Gus in the background, squealing Michael's name - the same one his daddy used - over and over in his adorable little toddler voice. Gus was the one thing in the world right now that could possibly give him cause to smile. Which prompted him to wonder, how in the hell could Brian just leave his son? Gus wasn't even his biological child, yet the thought of being far away from the little brown haired boy made Michael heartsick.  
  
"Why wasn't I told, Lindz?"  
  
"Tell me. Tell me everything right now."

* * *

All it took was one look at his face, at the rigid lines of his compact body, at the trenchant heat of deep brown eyes; and the Saturday night crowd of Liberty Avenue's bustling sidewalk parted down the middle like the Red Sea, for one single man, so breathtaking yet utterly intimidating in the vehemence of undeniable fury.  
  
Some recognized him, some did not, some weren't sure; but they all steered clear of his path.  
  
Michael could feel the slow burn of rage building in his stomach, hurt and pain licking at his heart like uncontrollable flames. He knew it was reflected in his eyes, because tonight, he didn't have to push and navigate his way through the street.  
  
He wondered, only to have his fury transcend yet another notch, if this was how Brian felt when he went places; on the outside, in complete control, on the inside, falling-the-fuck-apart.  
  
He reached the front of his destination, not hesitating to compose himself, and jerked the door open with all his might as he strode inside, familiar sounds and smells engulfing his senses, yet doing little to soothe him. Homey warmth hit the cooled flesh of his bare arms, prompting goosebumps to rise on the smooth skin. But they were not summoned from physical cold.  
  
"Hello, Michael! Nice to see you back in town. How's it hangin'?"  
  
"Not too good, Betty."  
  
A confused frown graced pink lips, but Michael continued before she could question. He braced both arms on the front of the counter, scanning the diner with flashing eyes.  
  
"I need to talk to Ma."  
  
"Sure, sweet thing, she's in the back," she said, patting Michael's cold cheek affectionately. He briefly wondered through a hazy mind why it was that no one could keep their hands of his cheeks.  
  
"Thanks." He smiled weakly, acknowledging a few casual acquaintances and hello's with a wave of his hand as he stalked towards the back of the diner.  
  
"Michael, sweetheart!" Debbie rushed him with both arms open wide, plethora of pins clattering together, but Michael grabbed her elbow with gentle force before she could clasp him into one of her patented bear hugs.  
  
"Ma, I need to talk to you. Right now."  
  
"That's a fine way to greet your mother. So, talk to me. Since you haven't in three weeks straight."  
  
"Not here." He guided her towards the storage room, the muscles in his jaw visibly clenching.  
  
"Michael, what the fuck are you doing?! I will not be manhandled by my own son!"  
  
He ignored her, closing the door behind them and turning to face her with crossed arms and simmering eyes.  
  
"Why the fuck did you do it, Ma?" Debbie's face softened at the choke of her son's voice, the liquid hurt of his brown eyes. "How could you?"  
  
Michael knew it was not entirely his mother's fault, but lost in a red haze, instinct screamed at him to lash out at someone. He felt his voice rising, his heart hammering as the same thought repeated itself across his consciousness with blazened clarity.  
  
_He's gone. He left. He left me without saying goodbye.  
  
_"Honey, it was for the best. I was doing you both a favor. He would have never left if he talked to you, and you wouldn't have married Ben."  
  
White hot pain blazed across his heart, so intense he was compelled to shut his eyes against the sudden brightness of his surroundings, and lean upon the storage room door for support. The second time that day he'd needed the support of an inanimate object.  
  
"You know what Ma? Maybe that's how it should've been. And MAYBE, just maybe, you should mind your OWN FUCKING BUSINESS!"  
  
He knew he shouldn't be yelling, not at his mother. Not with a diner full of gossipy gay men. But Jesus, Brian was gone. He left. And no one had told him.  
  
"Michael Charles Novotny, I raised you better than this!" She stepped in front of Michael, looking him up and down, as if apalled that her son had the nerve to counter her. "And just what do you mean, 'should've been'? You want to go back to the days of following Brian around all the time?" She punctuated 'Brian' with an all too familiar condescending lilt that caused Michael's anger to upgrade from simmering to boiling; yet he wisely chose to ignore the stinging remark.  
  
"You had NO RIGHT not to tell me! To tell, no - to _order_ - everyone, all of my friends, to keep it a secret from me! Christ Ma, did you think I was never gonna notice he was gone?! How could you let me find out this way?"  
  
"I just asked everyone to keep it down until you got back. I wasn't going to see your wedding ruined just because 'Brian' suddenly decides to pack his bags, in a last ditch effort to keep you from..." Debbie caught herself, averting her eyes as she realized what she had allowed to slip.  
  
Michael's eyes narrowed, understanding and incredulity slowly overtaking the rigid posture of his body. His arms fell from his sides, his voice whisper soft as he spoke.  
  
"What did you say to him?"  
  
Debbie gazed obstinately at the wall. "I don't have time for this Michael. And in case you didn't notice, its Saturday and the diner is full. I don't get paid to stand around and argue with you." She attempted to push past him, but Michael stood firm, clasping his mother's arms as he stared adamantly into her eyes.  
  
"Ma...I talked to Lindsay. She filled me in on what you told everyone. That I'd come running back like a lost puppy if I knew Brain was leaving. And I'm sure they understood, because that is what you would have everyone to believe. Well Ma, I don't give a shit what everyone thinks, or what YOU think. And obviously my feelings are mutual."  
  
Debbie attempted to bat his hands away, her features scrunched up with impatience. "What -"  
  
"I'm not finished. You've stuck your nose into something that you will never understand. Brian...we...I just need to know what you said to him."  
  
Silence. Guilty silence, he thought bitterly.  
  
His voice became more forceful, faltering from the potency of barely withheld tears. "What did you say to him? That would cause him to not even tell me goodbye?"  
  
"ALL I did was tell him that he should go on with his life, and leave your's alone. I told him there was no reason to tell you, because you were happy with Ben, that Ben gives you what you need and what _he_ can't."  
  
Michael let his hands slide away from Debbie's arms, and melted against the door, suddenly so weary he could barely stand. Closing his eyes he slowly tilted his head towards the ceiling, muttering a silent plea.  
  
_No. This isn't happening.  
_  
His mother didn't know what had happened that night. She didn't know Brian's fragile soul the way he did. She just didn't _understand._  
  
"Sweetheart, I was only trying to protect you, and Brian."  
  
He laughed with disbelief. "Protect us from _what_?"  
  
Debbie felt the conversation slipping through her fingers like hot sand, the blame being set upon her shoulders - and she did not like the feeling. This wasn't about her, anyway, she told herself firmly.  
  
Her tone became placating and sympathetic; the one she invariably used whenever Michael let Brian 'get to him'. "Michael, I knew you'd be this way. You're just upset, is all. Besides, it was a last minute thing. He decided the night before you left, so there just wasn't time."  
  
"He what?"  
  
"Justin told me he called him after he left Babylon the night before, told him he'd reconsidered. Don't try to convince me that if he'd told you, you still would've left the next morning."  
  
"Shit."  
  
"Michael! Where are you going? Don't you walk away from your mother while she's still talking!"  
  
Debbie was met with silence as the door swung shut before her.

* * *

Michael sat, still and pensive, in the one place other than Brian's arms that gave him a complete sense of comfort and security. He could have lied, telling himself that Ben's embrace offered the same sensation, but not tonight. Things were different tonight, and perhaps would forever be.  
  
His eyes slowly encompassed the darkened expanse of his comic book store, his actualized dream and most prized material possession. The crisp pages and silent superheroes of his most beloved comic books did not ask questions nor offer unwanted pity. They merely _were_; an abstract source of assurance and ethereal calm.  
  
As a child, fatherless and often times friendless, during those timeless years before wide-eyed perception of the world is shattered; he took whimsical contentment from the fact that his superheroes would never lie to him, never abandon him, and never be more one page turn away. They were alive in his imagination and in his heart; it was impossible for them to let him down, break a promise. They were beautiful, strong, honest; and they would never leave or belittle him like the people of his reality.  
  
Dream and reality, gloriously meshed together, walked into his freshman literature class twenty years ago, forever changing who he was, who he wanted to be. Brian was his superhero, his Superman; and he was Brian's Lois Lane. Together, they were - and promised they always would be - unbreakable, untouchable, inseparable.  
  
He lowered his eyes, futiley blinking back tears as he absently caressed the buttons of his cell phone. His gaze drifted to the random clutter of pictures taped behind the counter, locking onto a single black and white photo, the edges creased from age, but the faces young and fresh. It was of Brian and him, stretched out on their bellies atop the sun-warmed sand of Pocono Lake, shoulder to shoulder, forehead to forehead, smiling boyishly into the camera that he remembered his Uncle Vic had been holding.  
  
They had been barely seventeen. Brian had been so beautiful, in every way, even then. Although he would undoubtedly deny it, he still looked much the same; his body now a bit more toned, the elegant face a bit more refined. The eyes and smile, though, were the exactly the same - then and now. They were less guarded, however, more approachable, but still the same features so beloved and intimate to him. Michael tore his gaze away, unable to look any longer, because for the first time, he couldn't see those eyes and smile two feet away from him, couldn't reach out and touch a soft cheek or smooth a honey strand of hair. Pictures, along with the images and memories of his mind, were all he had. Nothing tangible.  
  
Michael felt an all to familiar squeeze in his chest, and unconsciously grabbed at the T-shirt over his heart. He'd felt such a poignant psychological ache only a few other instances in his life. The kind so powerful that it overtakes as thoroughly and persistently as thistle weed overtakes a field of pure timothy.  
  
Grappling with choices and decisions, he stared down at the number that glowed ominously across the screen of his cell phone.  
  
Brian's number.  
  
He had learned from Lindsay that Brian had changed wireless plans, switching to a picture phone so that Lindsay could send him photos of Gus. And the prick didn't have the common courtesy to tell his best friend this little detail. Why bother, though, if he couldn't even tell him he was moving halfway across the country.  
  
After nearly an hour of silent struggle, of brooding over what to say or if it was even a good idea to call in his current frame of mind (which was extremely pissed and heartbroken - not a good combination); Michael pressed down on the send button, flooded with a mixture of relief and dread as he did so.  
  
"Hey, Mikey."  
  
Dismay jolted through Michael, curtailing his joy from hearing his best friend's voice for the first time in three long weeks. Brian sounded exactly like he had when Michael returned from Portland, when he had found him fazed out in the backroom with five tricks attached to his dick.  
  
"Don't you dare 'hey, Mikey' me, asshole. What the hell is wrong with you?"  
  
"Somebody's Italian ire is piqued."  
  
"You're damn right it is."  
  
Silence hovered, the marked and muted clashing of two stubborn men who knew each other entirely to well. For a moment, they simply absorbed the soothing presence of their tenuous connection, singularly preparing themselves for the confrontation and confessions to come. Neither wished to be first in broaching the subject at hand.  
  
"Well, did you call to discuss the current state of the gay-rights legislation, or the inexorably high interest rates?"  
  
"Brian..."  
  
"I'm sure its not easy for a family these days."  
  
_"Brian_..."  
  
"Speaking of which, shouldn't you be at home, making pot roast with the Professor?"  
  
"Are you done?"  
  
"I don't know, stick a fork in me and see."  
  
Michael moved out from the behind the counter, pacing the length of the store, feeling the adrenaline flowing the way it always did whenever Brian got like this - reticent, derisive; basically just a complete pain in the ass.  
  
"Why the fuck didn't you tell me?" Michael queried breathlessly, tormented by the silence he was met with. Michael realized that Brian had erected (for once, not in the sexual meaning of the word) the proverbial brick wall, so infamous to his character, and Michael was left with the tedious task of chipping it away slowly; piece by piece, word by word. The effort would be tenfold, considering the element of physical communication was nonexistent. What could be resolved by a tender touch of the forehead or a chaste 'shut up' kiss was resorted to what Michael knew would be a bitter mudslinging session. Brian was all about actions; not words - and the words were always painful.  
  
"You had plans," was Brian's succinct reply.  
  
"You know, when your best friend decides to move from one ass end of the country to the other, I think a person has a right to be told, plans or no plans. Jesus, Brian! What were you thinking?"  
  
"I was thinking about how much I _didn't _want my loft graced with a permanent fixture in the form of your mother."  
  
"Brian, I know what she said to you -"  
  
"Ah, Mikey's done his homework -"  
  
" - and you know its not true! And since when did you start doing what she told you to, anyway?"  
  
"She's right."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Come on now Michael, you know that if I had told you, you would have abandoned your suicide pact with Benjamin to come begging at my boots. And how unfortunate would that be?"  
  
"Fuck you, Brian! Is that what you really think of me?"  
  
"Depends on what you really think of me."  
  
"I'm getting really sick of this cynical, worn out, cryptic bullshit of yours." 

"Well, you know what they say - a cynic is a person who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing."  
  
"This is all about what happened at Babylon, isn't it?"  
  
"This is about me," Brian said, as if he were explaining the concept to a young child, "finally getting my one-way ticket out of 'Shitts'burgh. And this is about you, finally getting your little 'hearth and home' fantasy."  
  
Michael smoothly bypassed Brian's clever diversion - even though in his heart, he knew it held a disturbing amount of truth. They were both finally getting what they wanted - or were they? "I was scared, Brian. Confused. I didn't mean what I said, you know that. Why can't we just forget it and go on, like always?"  
  
"That's exactly what we've done. You're there with Ben, I'm here with Justin. Painfully simple as that. You made your decision, I've made mine."  
  
"Why couldn't you have just _told _me, if it's so damn simple?"  
  
"I'd rather not have Deb serving up my balls on a silver platter. She's your mother, you deal with her."  
  
"I already have. You can't fool me, Brian; there's more to this than just what she said to you. What made you call up Justin, and change your mind? At the last minute? Please....Brian tell me."  
  
Brian huffed a sigh of resignation, a short gust of air that Michael knew well - and Michael stopped pacing, his breathing hitching in his parched throat as he waited on pins and needles for Brian's response.  
  
"Me, Michael. I made myself change my mind. I wanted out of there, I _needed_ out. There's nothing for me there. Never has been."  
  
Michael couldn't talk, couldn't breath. He found the nearest wall and slid down it numbly to rest his forehead against a jean-clad knee. He wanted to beg him to stop, to come back to him, but Brian only drove the knife deeper, just as Michael expected him too.  
  
"You know, you should have stayed in Boston. You do realize that in the Pitts, its worthless, right? What the fuck does marriage accomplish anyways, other than a paycheck for divorce lawyers?"  
  
"You broke your promise."  
  
Brian snorted disparagingly, pretending not to notice the anguish of Michael voice. "Could you please refresh my memory? Since, of course, I going around making _so_ many idle promises."  
  
Michael's voice raised, his anger spurred by Brian's blatant callousness. It was almost as if his best friend's tactic was to push, prod, insult, and taunt; until finally Michael could take no more, breaking down and spilling forth every little detail of his heart. The only thing that kept Michael from doing exactly that was his fear, his pride. What would Brian say? Would he laugh? Would he thank him for proving his point? Or would he return what Michael gave?  
  
He wasn't about to make this easy for Brian. He wasn't going to be the only one to put his feelings on the line. He'd done so too many times in the past, only to be rejected.  
  
It was Brian's call. It was Brian's turn. Surely he knew that Michael had always been in love with him, always would be. What was holding him back, unless it was unrequited? It was the fear that had kept Michael locked in the same place for nearly twenty years.  
  
"You promised me, Brian. That no matter what happened, no matter how we 'moved on', that we'd always be there for each other! That we wouldn't let anyone, or anything, come between us!"  
  
"YOU broke that promise, Michael, first with David, now with the Professor. You got married for Christ's sakes! How is that not supposed to change things?!"  
  
"What about YOU! "I don't do boyfriends, I don't do relationships, I don't do love." At least I didn't break my own fucking holy code! You know I want those things; you told me you wanted me to have them! Make up your mind Brian. Its a two-way fucking street."  
  
"Yeah. And I just hit the intersection and took the road OUT."  
  
Michael was stunned into silence. He bit his lip, tasting blood.  
  
"Fine, if that's what you want."  
  
"Fine."  
  
"Fine."  
  
The petulant exchange would put a hormonal group of teenage girls, squabbling over their favorite boy bands, to dreadful shame. How Michael ached to just laugh at their foolishness, admit that they were both lying. But this was _real_, and things were rarely ever so simple.  
  
"What about Gus."  
  
"He has his mothers." A slight pause, an indrawn breath. "He has you."  
  
"You're his father, Brian."  
  
"He doesn't need me."  
  
"That's not true, Brian, and you know it. He does need you." _I need you. _Why did it feel they were closer to the real issue than ever - and when they were talking about Gus? Michael could feel the hesitancy in Brian's pause, could almost see hazel eyes darkening with confusion.  
  
"I can be replaced."  
  
"Bullshit. You can never be replaced."  
  
More silence. Not the comfortable, companionable kind.  
  
"Look Brian, its almost midnight. I've got to get home."  
  
"Of course. Go home to your family, Michael. Spit shine your wedding bands. Serenade each other in front of the fire. "  
  
"Why do you do that?"  
  
"How much time have you got?"  
  
"You always have my time, Brian. Every minute, every second, every hour," he said softly, pleading for Brian to hear the purport behind his words, to shed his protective sarcasm and simply hear what Michael had to say for what it was.  
  
"That sure isn't how it seemed three weeks ago."  
  
Well, scratch that.  
  
"Christ! I've already told you that I didn't mean it. Your selective memory is forgetting that you were the one who went MIA for three weeks, only to jump me like a jungle cat in heat. What was I supposed to think? I'm not a mind-reader."  
  
"Great, 'cause I'm not either. So maybe we should just stop. Go our separate ways. Because we don't seem to understand each other anymore."  
  
Michael's heart plunged for at least the fourth time that day, and he gave silent thanks that he was already huddled on the cold floor.  
  
He never thought this day would come, had never even entertained the thought. Though, in absent retrospect, he was surprised that he wasn't furious, couldn't be furious. He couldn't cry. He couldn't yell. He couldn't demand anything more of Brian. This was really it. They'd pushed each other too far this time, and the repercussions were far uglier than either ever imagined.  
  
The end of always.  
  
All he could do was grieve, feeling as if a dear friend had passed away, a sadness so overwhelming that Michael was certain a part of him died as the words left Brian's mouth and processed in his brain.  
  
Listening for what could be the last time to the funny little wheeze of Brian's deviated septum, memorizing it, he summoned up the strength to find his voice. It was almost as if Brian was waiting for something. For Michael to cleanly and mutually sever the last threads of their unbreakable bond?  
  
The thought caused Michael to swallow back the bitterness of bile. He would not lose it. He would not fall apart.  
  
"Just remember this, Brian - I will always love the false image I had of you."  
  
He hit the end button, and this time, he didn't stop himself from throwing it.

* * *

__

_I Ran Away_ by **Coldplay  
**  
I ran away from you  
That's all I ever do  
And though I started here  
I ran away from you  
  
I'm gonna come on in  
And see it through  
I ran away from you  
That's all I ever do  
  
And when I heard you call  
"Come back to me"  
I know I should stay  
I don't have the stomach to  
  
Everyone I know says  
I'm a fool to mess with you  
Everyone I know says  
it's a stupid thing to do  
  
I have your love on call  
And yet my day is so full  
There might be nothing left to do  
So I ran away from you  
  
I'm gonna come on in  
My eyes are closed  
I can feel it there  
The sun's so close  
I'm gonna come on out  
And burn the sky  
  
A star arose in my own cage  
I'm stuck in life and in a cage  
  
Just a single star  
I sing for  
  
TBC......


	6. Chapter Six

**Pairing:** B/M, of course, with initial B/J, Be/M overtones. Very, very slight mention of Brian/OMC in this chapt.  
**Rating: **R  
**Genre:** Angst, Romance, WIP  
**Summary:** Michael has some news for Brian. Brian can't cope, and pushes Michael - and himself - too far.

**Special Thanks:** To my friends at livejournal and the Yahoo! list, which I like to refer to as my B/M family. :)  
**Spoilers:** Through Season 4  
**Warnings:** AU (which constitutes only the plot - NOT the characters), WIP. And, er, its rather angsty. However, I promise when I say it has a very happy ending. Violence to a major character is implied, but not mentioned.

**Disclaimer:** No profit is generated from this. QAF and Brian/Michael are not mine.

* * *

**Be My Downfall**

**Chapter 6**

**_Two Months Later_**

Nights merged into days, hours dwindled to minutes, and human fraternization became his surreptitious enemy. It was an accurate observation to say that he had cut himself off from all the normalities of his life, including the more prominent people and activities that were congruous with his person.

The only indication that he was even alive, given the promiscuity of his seemingly former self, was the zealous integrity with which he approached formulating his very own advertising agency. He was consumed by it - possessed with the creative process and curiously rejuvenated by the mental exhaustion and hours of tedious details. It was the only human affiliation he derived pleasure from; excluding his new acquaintance to one dark haired man.

He turned down the bountiful invitations to extravagant dinner parties and lavish banquets, preferring to remain in the dark corners of his self-constructed shadow. He knew the social mingling would benefit his business efforts, yet he simply couldn't bring himself to participate. His resumé and charm alone got him places and landed negotiations that normally took others in his position years to accomplish. The difference between himself and the other schmucks in the ad world? He knew he was the best - and he used it to his advantage with unrestrained hauteur.

It also helped that Brett Keller graciously circulated his name and aptitude. A quaint little headquarters and catchy name later (courtesy of Justin); and Kinnetic was on its way. Which meant the workload was augmented and his budget constantly tested.

It was a good excuse to further disconnect himself. In a tone a bit to sharp to be labeled 'teasing', Justin often told him he was jealous of Brian's love affair with his desk. These comments always seemed to follow on the heels of another rejection from Brian - either to go out for the night, or to fuck, or to simply go to sleep together. Problem was, Brian couldn't sleep at night. Especially not when he looked over at Justin beside him in the bed, and was forced to remember why he was here, in this ridiculously luxurious excuse of an apartment; and when he feared his sleep would not be dreamless.

The light of day was hardly a relief. Justin was gone for the majority of the morning, noon, and evening; a relief within itself. Solitude - and good ole dependable Beam - were the only balm for the aches of the turbulence that had so violently uprooted his life. Justin would plead and beg in his usual fashion for Brian to accompany him to one of Brett's parties, but Brian invariably refused following the events of the first time he'd accepted. He had hated the experience, all of it - the people - so arrogant and conceited, too much like himself - the bullshitting, the reverence of wealth. But that was insignificant compared to his reaction to overhearing a group of men discussing the creative genius of Michael Novotny, and what a respectable man he must be. Brian had excused himself, pale and suddenly loathing the martini in his hand, nausea overtaking him as he brushed past a concerned Justin. His undoing had been looking up, high on the vaulted ceiling of Brett's mansion, to find himself stared down upon by a life-size poster of Rage and Zephyr, in classic super hero pose, just the two of them.

He had proceeded to search blindly for Brett's bathroom before emptying the contents of his stomach. Between heaves, he noted that the bathroom was adorned in V-Men theme, and thought of how much Michael would like it, only to be broad sided by another wave of acrid queasiness.

After that, he had called a cab to take him the few miles back to the opulent apartment he could never call home, and sworn off all and any parties of Brett's - however, he kept a characteristically sharp eye on Rage, seeing to it, in his covert ways, that everything was exactly as Justin told Michael. Justin had come back from the party that night fuming, demanding to know why Brian left without so much as a word. Brian had easily matched Justin's anger with his own, enraged that the blonde even fostered the notion that he needed to answer to him, or had reason to explain his actions. It was one of the worst arguments they had ever engaged in; and it was the starting point for many more.

Things between them grew cold after that; not that they were warm to begin with. They co-existed much like two combative college roommates; coming and going as they pleased without question of the other's whereabouts, taking turns with bathrooms and household appliances with annoyed patience, and occasionally sharing a casual conversation or a spontaneous fuck.

Neither was blind to the action taking place behind the scenes. Brian was no fool; he knew that Justin was beginning to realize that LA had a substantial amount to offer when it came to the availablity of hot, gay men eager to fuck. Compared to Liberty Avenue, it was the cream of the crop. He soon found that Brian was not the only lucratively gorgeous gay man in the world; and in LA, a personality to match was not uncommon. For Justin, Brian's novelty as a gay man was beginning to wear off, the thrill rapidly decreasing as he was introduced to a whole new realm of possibilities.

Analogously, Justin was regularly fed glimpses of what was actually eating away at the indestructible Kinney. Although the person in question would have him to believe that it was simply the strain of starting all over as an ad man, Justin knew a line of bull when he heard one. When Brian never called Michael, and vice versa; he grew suspicious. When Brian left the apartment every time Justin talked to Michael about the developments of Rage, his suspicions grew. When he came in late one night to find Brian asleep in bed, fully clothed, a picture of Michael clutched to his chest, partially obscured by the desperate grip of one hand; his suspicions had been confirmed. From then on, Justin had backed off from Brian, sexually and emotionally, yet he never let on that he knew. Each secret side of their relationship was silently acknowledged; the issues were there, but not there. As they had always been. Brian didn't seem to notice - or chose not to notice - Justin's careful distancing. Justin often surmised that Brian was grateful for it.

Each became a superficial fixture in the life of the other, and the last thread between them - money - was fraying rapidly. Justin no longer had need to depend on Brian financially. Brian was well past the point of regaining the financial footing he held at Vanguard. They were becoming two separate men. Justin felt he was moving forward in his life, and that Brian - hindered by what Justin suspected was agonized love for his best friend of twenty years - was moving in entirely the opposite direction.

They both knew that their days together were numbered. To Justin, it was a healthy balance of wistful sadness and anticipated freedom. He mourned for what could have been, but rejoiced over what had been. Brian had helped him grow into his own man, but now, Brian could only hold him back. Over the span of time they had been in LA, the nagging feeling of being Brian's scapegoat, his second plan - the substitute for Michael - became increasingly apparent day by day, as Brian withdrawled into himself.

The evidence of their impending separation was met with indifference from Brian. Justin could go, or he could stay, it was his call, like it had been in times past, except this time, Brian knew which choice Justin would make. He didn't like to think about it, however - cross that bridge when you get to it.

Which they both knew would be very soon.

* * *

_There isn't enough hot water to be in....There isn't enough salt lake to to lie in...._

Brian huffed a frustrated sigh, leaning his forehead against the palm of his hand and jabbing at the touchpad of his laptop in agitation.

_There isn't enough sky to fly in, so softly..._

He had been exceedingly lucky to land this client, though at the moment, he felt anything but. The song blaring on the stereo wasn't helping much.

_There isn't enough breath to breathe...Not for me...oh God damn me..._

He often wondered, in times like these, sitting in completely foreign surroundings and musing over a catchy phrase for toilet paper, just why exactly he had aspired to pursue advertising.

_There isn't enough snow to see through...Snows too deep... There isn't enough fog to see through...Not through to me..._

Fuckin' toilet paper. This wasn't how he wanted to spend his evening. He briefly envied Justin, who had left hours before, announcing with unconcerned nonchalance that he was 'going out'. Brian had merely grunted in response, their usual form of communication these days - minimal and to the point.

_There isn't enough gain to get from...Not from me...Oh God damn me..._

He reached for the remote, turning the stereo off with a scowl. The lyrics were too close to home. He never did like Justin's choice of music, but he didn't dare listen to his own. Brought up too many things best left where they were.

He shifted his focus back on the project at hand. Why did toliet paper companies have to compete, anyway? Not as if it was a unique invention.

His mind inevitably strayed. Times like this were dangerous. Usually, his job did a sufficient task of diverting his mind, but late at night, when his muse abandoned him, his thoughts wandered and he always ended up in the same place; in the same pitiful, self-induced state. He could always feel it coming, but could do nothing to stop it.

Brian stared off into the air, hazel eyes fragile and distant. He leaned back in the plushness of his chair, attempting to slowly exhale the pent up tension of his body. Before he could stop himself, his hand was reaching for the middle drawer of his desk, opening it slowly.

He sighed a sigh of defeat, contentment, and pain as he gently lifted the object that held him captive from velvet interior of the drawer, being careful to keep his fingers on the edge of the thin paper as he cradled it lovingly between his fingers.

A hand reached up to cover his mouth, as if to stifle a whimper, as he stared, elbow rested against the wood of the desk. He closed his eyes tightly, reopening them slowly to continue gazing at his world.

It was a photo of Michael and Gus - Gus was atop Michael's shoulders, smiling down upon the dark haired man with pure joy in hazel eyes that were so much like his father's. His small hands were entwined with Michael's larger ones, a grip of complete affection and absolute trust. Michael's head was tilted to look up at the beaming toddler, the expression of adoration reflected in the beautiful abyss of his deep brown eyes. Coupled with the plain white t-shirt, faded jeans, and entrancing smile; Michael looked exactly like he had at eighteen, prompting a bittersweet smile to Brian's lips.

It was Brian's favorite photo, and he kept it close to him at all times. There was one in his wallet, one on his desk at Kinnetic; sometimes, one in his pocket, close to his heart.

After his last phone conversation with Michael, he'd stared at the same picture for hours, until he had fallen asleep, the image of his best friend's smiling face his last coherent thought before the dreams wrapped around him like a blanket, nought but a replay of the sequence of events that had formed the bitter depth of the chasm that separated him from Michael.

_I'll always love the false image I had of you._

The words haunted him. The desolation he remembered hearing in Michael's voice reverberated through his senses, inescapable both night, day, and all spaces in between. He'd been a wreck for days afterwards; a walking, sneering, enraged glob of gay man is how Justin so benignly described his demeanor. Clueless, of course, to its true origin.

Brian finally had an answer to appease his morbid curiosity. How far could he push Michael? Their friendship? Their need for each other? Could they stand as corollary downfalls, and saviors?

He knew one thing with deadly certainty: he needed Michael like he needed water. He could go for days without it; only to slowly weaken, slowly waste to nothing but a mere wraith of his former self until finally, he dwindled to nothing at all. Just like the human body is comprised of eighty percent water, Brian's existence, his very soul, was eighty percent Michael. Apparently more. Probably all.

He had constantly wondered what Michael had done that night, following their heated conversation. He prayed someone had been there to comfort him, that he hadn't secluded himself, as was his tendency.

Brian would probably not be thrilled with the knowledge that Michael went home that night, to Ben, who had quietly laid next to Michael's trembling body, stroking his hair with tender fingers as Michael shed silent tears. Ben had always been tolerant of the dynamic that was Michael and Brian's relationship; too tolerant, in Brian's private opinion. He wasn't supposed to be so composed and wordly-wise all the time. He was supposed to view Brian as a threat - like David had. He was supposed to demand that Michael choose. He was supposed to get fed up and fade away, leaving Michael to him, returning things back to the way they should be.

Brian put the photo back in its place, shutting down his laptop and switching off the lamp. No way he could muster the concentration to work now. He reached for his cell phone, dialing a familiar number, exchanging a few familiar words, then grabbed his keys, disappearing out the door.

* * *

"You know why I hiredz' you?"

"I'd like to think it was because of my unerring secretarial qualities, but I have a feeling your going to tell me." Dark eyes regarded his companion skeptically before raising a warming, sweaty beer bottle to his lips, downing a quick swig.

"'S smart man you are. Very's clever's." Brian leaned in towards the smaller man conspiratorially, a drunken gleam in his eyes. He was perhaps as drunk as he had ever been in his entire life.

"If I squintz 'm eyes...just..like...so..." he demonstrated, closing one eye completely and narrowing the other to a mere slit, eliciting an amused snort from his companion, "you almost look...'jus like him."

The dark haired man shook his head softly, deciding to humor his boss. They'd had this same conversation, under the same circumstances, quite a few times.

"And if I squint my eyes, just...like...so," he said, mimicking Brian's example, "you look just like Ashton Kutcher."

Brian hiccuped a laugh, resting his forehead on the lip of his empty beer bottle.

"Your're 'good man, Russ. Too kind."

"Whatever you say, Boss. Just remember it when your sober."

It was true. Russel Abernethy bore uncanny resemblance to Michael Novotny. A hair taller, eyes far less expressive, and cheeks a little slimmer; there were differences, although subtle. Upon interviewing secretary candidates, Brian had ceased looking upon meeting Russel. He'd broken an internal business rule when he'd fucked him not once, but twice. The ache in his heart was subsided for few hours as he fucked Russel with an intensity he knew was caused by an illusion the man created in his mind. Russel knew; though he didn't care. He'd been instantly attracted to the elusive Kinney, and didn't give much thought to the motivations of fucking - to him, it was just fucking, which resulted in a stand-offish, quirky friendship developing between them.

"Hey, Swartzly, 'nother beer." Russ motioned for the bartender, but held up his hand when the stocky man placed one in front of his punch-drunk friend.

"Gimme that. No more for Kinney. Can't you see the man is drunk as a skunk already?"

'Swartzly' shrugged, busying himself elsewhere. Bartenders in distinguished establishments such as the ones found in LA did not go out of their way to socialize with customers, not like in the small joints of the country. Sometimes, Russ missed the simple ways of the south.

"So, Kinney, what happened tonight that made you think you needed my company? Did you talk to him?"

Brian continued to lie motionless on the bar top. Russ waited, sipping leisurely at the fresh, ice cold beer in his hand and idly cruising the expanse of room for a potential trick as he waited for Brian to assemble cognition.

He didn't mind lending an ear to the romantic woes of his boss. In all honesty, he was rather intrigued by the whole story. It would make a fabulous premise for a novel.

Brian peeked out from under his elbow with bloodshot eyes. "Talk to him?"

"Yeah, you know, as in to converse by means of spoken language? Pardon my saying so Boss, but your a fucked up mess. Don't you think its time you quit pissing and moaning and told him how you feel?"

Brian laughed, but it came out series of interrupted hiccups.

"It's not that easy, Russ.'S married."

"And? From what you've told me, he'd drop the Big Bad Buddhist in a heartbeat if you would just tell him you love him."

"'M not so sure anymore, Russ."

Brian made a grab for Russel's beer, but Russ swatted the hand away.

"No. Mine. You're practically marinating in beer already."

Brian smiled, and Russel was once again dumbstruck with how beautiful he was. He also knew that whenever he smiled like that, he was thinking of him.

"You sound like Mikey."

"And you sound very drunk. I think its time you got back home to Lover Boy."

"Your 'm secretary, not 'm chauffeur. And 's not home, and 'e's not 'm 'lover boy' or whatever shit it was you said."

"Uh, you fuck him, right?"

"Not for weeks. We're practically over. 'Jus can't stand it anymore. Too different...too 'like. Not what I want...need."

"Give me a minute while I translate that. Meanwhile, go get your ass in the car. I'm taking you back to your apartment."

Russ turned to to walk away, but was halted by a firm grasp on his bicep.

"Why does it hurt, Russ? Why am I so afraid?"

Russ was rendered momentarily speechless by the raw pain he glimpsed in the depths of Brian's eyes, a palpable emotional struggle and love for a man that had to be extraordinary. From the very start, Brian did not strike him as the type that pined and longed, yet here he was, a veritable mess. Russ had never seen someone so desolate...so lonely. It was as if Brian was walking around with half a soul, half a heart. Walking wounded indeed.

Brian's gaze held him firmly in place, begging him for an answer that would assuage him. Russ didn't have one - except that life was a bitch, and then she has puppies. Many thought that Brian Kinney was intimidating sober; a cynical, sarcastic man who never hesitates to tell the truth, no matter how harsh. But Russel was beginning to find that he was even more so drunk, with all barriers lowered and his vulnerability shining through. He didn't know how to handle him, and admired any person that did; that is, if they existed.

Russ sighed, sitting back down on his bar stool and facing Brian's derelict face.

"You know that old aphorism, 'you can't always get what you want'?"

"'S a song."

"Whatever. So, maybe you should just forget him, if you don't think he loves you."

Brian's eyes grew wide, and for one dreadful moment he thought the man was going to initiate another plastered, yelling fit. He held his breath.

"No. I can never forget him. You dontsz understands," Brian said resolutely, staring at Russ with calculating eyes as if he had severely insulted him.

"You're right. I don't. And I don't think you do at the moment either, because your veins are flooded with alcohol. But answer me this, if possible. Why the fuck are you here, in LA, if he's there, in PA?"

Brian turned away, staring at the polished wood of the bar and picking at the soggy paper of his beer label. Russ realized he'd hit a brick wall, and sighed. Even thoroughly intoxicated, Brian would only open up so much, before he clamped back down again.

Several moments of silence followed, Brian's eyes faraway and melancholy. Russ involuntarily flinched when he finally spoke; a low, soft voice inflected with nostalgic retrospection.

"The moment I laid eyes on him...I knew. Just like that. It was almost visceral. I wanted him...everything about him. His heart, his soul, his body, his mind...everything. And I wanted him to have me. All of me. But I realized I couldn't give it to him...I couldn't give him everything. And everything is what he deserves."

"And your afraid your going to hurt him. Your afraid of losing him, so better to just keep him at arm's length, under the guise of best friend. Because if you lose him, you lose yourself. So you've rejected him, made him believe that all you want is his friendship, nothing more. You've rejected him so much, in fact, that he's given up hope, and therefore you can't make him believe you, because he's protecting himself. Correct?"

"Vanna, show 'em what he's won..."

"Fuck, Kinney, the solution is simple. Although I don't think you'd realize it even if it came up and bit you on the ass."

Brian lifted a quizzical brow, eyeing Russ dubiously.

"Go.Back.To.Pitssburgh. Sweep him of his feet."

Brian scrunched up his face at the phrase, turning his head away.

"And just exactly how am I supposed to do that?"

"You know, Kinney, you really can be a dumbass sometimes."

"What kind of way is that to talk to your boss? Your friend?"

"I can get away with it 'cause I'm your only friend here."

Brian shrugged somberly, returning to the task of de-labeling his beer bottle.

"Firstly, you get back to the Pitts by this nifty little invention called an airplane. It flies. Secondly, you sweep him off his feet by telling him what you just told me...the little 'moment I laid eyes on him' bit. For a prickly fuckin' cactus like you, it was rather sweet. And I hate sweet, but anyways. And I guarantee you, that the moment you get to the 'I can't give him everything' part, you'll be fucking like rabbits and declaring your undying love. And if I'm wrong, you are cordially invited to fire me."

"Like I need to be invited."

"Like your business can function without me."

"Cheeky bastard, aren't you?"

"Comes with the job. So, what about it? Or are you going to continue wallowing in the dregs of your own misery?"

Brian glared at him through murky eyes.

Although they held a mutual respect for one another, Russ realized that he could never get away with talking to a sober Brian so bluntly. At work, Brian carried on as if everything was roses and peaches, and did an admirable job of convincing everyone, including Russ - that is, until Brian had called him up one night, shortly after he'd been hired, asking Russ to accompany him for a night on the town. Russ had been suspicious, to say the least; but had agreed from an entirely professional aspect. At Russ's suggestion, they'd found themselves at Firefly, a bar renowned for their Mediterranean style dishes and al fresco setting. Then it began.

Aloof, ceremonious, and haughty Brian Kinney began telling him about Pittsburgh, Babylon, and Woodies as if he was an old aquaintance from years past. He sat for what felt hours and listened as he described Michael Novotny, their friendship, their childhood, and every thing in between - and Russ was mesmerized.

With each sentence, Brian had taken a slow sip of beer, gradually inebriating himself as his story progressed to the more painful parts. Russ had simply listened with attentive ears, realizing that underneath the callousness, lied a man who was desperately miserable and terribly lonely, and only wanted someone who would listen to him. However, only one man could ease his pain; anyone else was merely a temporary fix for a voracious addiction. He had been clueless as to why him, until he remembered that he supposedly looked alot like this Michael Novotny. At first, he had been more than a little freaked by the fact when Brian began to ask for his company, even after they had fucked, but as time wore on, he realized that Brian was always fully aware that Russ was not 'Mikey'.

Sometimes he felt he knew so much about Mikey that he could write his biography.

"Hey, look, is that Tom Cruise over there, sipping a martini?"

"Don't change the subject."

"Well, you wouldn't answer me."

"What did you say?"

"Nevermind. Look, Brian...this can't go on. Your a fucking fall down mess."

"Somebody once said that to me."

"No shit. What exactly are you waiting for? With Michael, I mean."

"I'm not gonna fuck with his happiness, Russ."

"I don't see how telling him you've been in love with him for twenty years qualifies as such."

"I don't deserve him. Everybody shares my sentiments. His mom, his friends..."

"Oh, get off it already. Who gives a flying fuck what they think. What does he think? What would he more than likely say if he heard you spewing such pathetic horse shit?"

Brian smiled, swaying slightly as he turned away from Russ. He was loathe to admit that he actually liked this guy.

"He'd tell me to shut up and then he'd kiss me."

"My point exactly," Russ said, raising his hands in a display of exasperation.

"I'm just...Jesus." At a loss for words, Brian let his forehead fall to the bar, eyes shut tightly against the world.

"So now your Jesus?" Russ said lightly, nudging Brian's arm a little. Brian had a good heart, he'd come to realize, but it had serious baggage. Even though his perpetual stubbornness irritated him to no end, he didn't want to see Brian in such pain.

"I'm just afraid of failing. Of not being what he needs, of hurting him. I'd kill myself before I'd hurt him like that, Russ. That's why I started what I did with Justin. I had to see if I could do it. If I could make it work."

Russ sighed for at least the thousandth time that night, rubbing wearily at his forehead.

"You haven't failed with blondie. I don't see how you survived as long as you did. The kid's a selfish little prick, if you ask me. He wouldn't piss on me if I was burning."

Justin had immediately picked up on the connection the moment he saw Russ, and generally ignored the man; and when he didn't, he always had a caustic retort to aim in his direction. Russ had returned the vindictiveness in kind.

Brian snorted, his tone mock surprised. "Really? I kinda thought you had a widdle crush on him."

"Shut up. That isn't even funny. It's demeaning."

"Don't get all pissy. It was a j - o - k - e."

"Look, Patrick Swayze," Russ said nonchalantly, motioning with his head towards the left corner of Firefly.

"Did I ever tell ya 'bout the time me and Mik-"

"Yes, Brian, you have. Numerous times. Listen, why don't you go find yourself a nice hot twink and put a great big cherry atop the evening, with a few nuts on the side, eh?"

"Not interested. And didn't your mother ever tell you to avoid nuts and fruits? You are what you eat."

"Damn. So _that's _where I went wrong."

Silence followed, excluding the horribleness of the current song and the inane cackling of tipsy patrons.

"Did you know that Mikey was the first person who ever told me he loved me?"

Russ was taken aback by the raw emotion which pervaded that single statement. "Oh, c'mon, surely your parents said it to you."

"Nope. Not that I care to remember. If they did say it, it was worthless."

The one thing Brian never shared with him was the details of his life prior to meeting Michael. All he knew was that his father was dead, his sister was a cunt, and his mother a hypocritical devil dodger.

"But when Mikey said it..."

"Made ya feel all fuzzy inside?"

A belch, and a hiccup. "Yeah. Except I could never say it back. I don't talk to him like he does me. He's a bleeding heart...always giving me everything, whether I deserve it or not, whether I give back or not." He sniffed lightly, digging around in his pockets. "He never expects anything from me. Never asks me to change. Only once...for Gus."

"Your son."

Brian nodded. "You know, when I talked to him that night, told him we needed to go our separate ways...I was waiting. I waited, and I waited. I wanted him to tell me to come back to him, that he didn't care about Ben. But he wouldn't and I didn't...I didn't..." he grappled with words, biting at his lower lip furiously. "Fuck it all."

He tried to flick open his lighter, but his fingers refused to sustain a grip.

"Here, let me help."

Brian shoved Russ away gruffly, and threw the uncooperative lighter into a nearby ashtray; which, somehow, tumbled into it miraculously.

Brian attempted to stand, reaching out to the bar for support as he swayed violently.

He threw a wad of cash on the cherry wood surface, mock saluting the bartender with a wobbly hand before turning and stumbling towards the stucco door, holding up an index finger as if to make a valid point as he looked back towards Russ deliberately.

"I don't need any fucking help," he grumbled, right as he walked into the wall.

* * *

"Can you make it in alright?"

"I always make it in, but better than alright," Brian slurred, stumbling away from Russ's red camaro.

"Right. See you tomorrow."

"Your ass better not be late again."

"Jesus Kinney, it was two minutes past the hour."

"'S still late," Brian mumbled over his shoulder.

Russ peered out the passenger side window of his idling car, watching to make sure Brian staggered successfully inside the building. The right building. He wasn't going to be responsible for that again.

He shook his head softly as he pealed away from the curb. This could not go on. Didn't that blonde airhead realize what was happening to his lover? What would happen? Brian was practically falling apart in front of his eyes, yet the twink did nothing, acting as if it were of no concern to him.

Jealously, Russ thought. If the kid subtly disfavored him, he must loathe Novotny.

Obviously, Justin was turning a blind eye to Brian's emotional state, feigning ignorance but in truth possessing complete knowledge of the real deal. Selfish prick indeed, Russ thought with a scowl.

Brian was not his responsibility, barely a friend; yet he knew that his tenuous friendship was keeping Brian's head above water - barely. But for how long? He shuddered at the thought of the predicaments his boss would be in, if not for him. Things were even beginning to show at the agency, and somehow, Russ knew that was a very bad sign.

He was tempted to set a trap, sedate him, and ship him first class back to Pittsburgh on a UPS jet with Michael Novotny's address scrawled atop the box in big bold letters.

He doubted that Brian would protest much.

* * *

"Brian. Wake up, Brian."

The bed was warm and very soft - softer than he ever remembered it being. He didn't really want to find out what was going on outside the soft, liquid warmth in which he was floating. It was too sinfully delicious. He could feel tingling warmth radiating from someone, or something, hovering above him; a warmth that was reflected in the voice, though faraway.

It was wonderful.

It was home.

"Brian."

Closer now. A puff of hot breath against his ear. He shifted in his sleep, still not persuaded to abandon the pleasant cocoon of warmth that enveloped him. His eyelids quivered, hazel tipped lashes stirring. The voice was magnetic, the dulcet tone seductive in its intimateness. He was drawn to it's familiarity, even deep within the cusp of long needed, euphoric slumber.

"Wake up."

Playful blows of breath across the whirl of his ear.

"Mmpfh tickles." He laughed sleepily, head lolling to the opposite side as he continued to bask in warmth and peacefulness that had evaded him for two months. He wasn't ready to shatter the illusion, to open his eyes and face bitter emptiness.

But the lovely voice, undertoned with amusement, was gently insistent that he awaken.

"It's me."

Incredibly soft lips pressed against his own in a delicate kiss, slow and expressive. He couldn't help but whimper when they pulled away much to soon. He knew those lips. He knew that taste. He knew the voice.

He knew the sensation.

"Mikey?"

"Silly rabbit. Who'd ya think?"

Abruptly, he opened his eyes, and was met with a smile so bright and eyes so deep and brown, he felt sure his heart would burst. Michael crouched above him, palms and knees on either side of his body.

He could only stare in wonderment as Michael continued to gaze at him adoringly, a translucent luminous of unidentified origin casting an ethereal glow upon pale skin.

"Mikey." Very soft. Barely a whisper. Somehow, Brian knew the moment was fragile. "Oh, God." It was a quiet utterance of overwhelmed gratefulness as he leaned up to encircle his arms around a trim waist, leaving them in a sitting position on the bed as Michael gently returned the desperate embrace.

"How...why...?" He murmured against Michael's t-shirt, letting the familiar scent coalesce with every breath.

Michael drew back, placing a single finger across Brian's parted lips as he lowered them back onto the pillows.

"Ssshhh. Just let me look at you."

Michael moved to straddle Brian's bare chest, sweeping his form with affectionate eyes. Brian suddenly felt suffused with warmth, and never wanted to move again.

Once Michael had looked his fill, he giggled faintly, the corner of his lip caught between white teeth. Brian didn't know what was funny, but found himself encapsulated by the infectious laugh. He reached up a hand, and starting at the top of Michael's ear, ran his fingertips through jet hair, grasping the silken spikes between his fingers as he reached the back of Michael's head, pulling him in for a kiss; but cool fingers clasped his wrist, guiding his hand downward to rest upon his heart. Michael looked at him meaningfully as Brian reveled in the feel of Michael's heart beating beneath his palm.

"What do you see when you close your eyes?"

Brian lifted an eyebrow in puzzlement, opening his mouth to speak, but Michael halted his response.

"A horizon. At sunset. Or maybe dawn. I can't really tell. But the clouds are always an array of pastels; warm yellows, soft pinks...oranges that glow like the embers of a dying fire. You can just barely see the sun. But you know it's there, because it touches everything with gold, warms your skin."

Michael's smile was suddenly eclipsed by a sad frown, and Brian wanted to kiss it away, return the smile he loved and longed for.

"That is what I see," Michael continued softly, a wistful quality to his voice as his eyes unfocused.

Confused, Brian tried to sit up, but Michael placed both hands lightly on his chest, returning his focus to Brian's face. He wanted control, and Brian gladly relinquished it.

"What do you see?" Michael's hands slid up Brian's smooth skin, until they cupped over his eyes, causing his world to go dark.

"Tell me what you see." Brian felt a moist kiss along his stubbly jaw. He relaxed, closing his eyes and descending into the pacifying quiet of Michael's presence.

"I see...a horizon. With mountains."

"What color is it?"

"I can't tell. Too much fog."

"Can you see through it?"

"Barely. I see something. Someone. A person, at least." The fingers covering his eyes twitched imperceptibly.

"Who?"

"I don't know. The fog is too dense. I can only see abstract forms. But the horizon, it's...half of the clouds are deep blue. Like storm clouds. The other half is...empty. "

A sigh, and the blockading hands where gone, the pleasant pressure on his chest relieved as Michael straightened his spine.

"Empty skies but a butterflies wings beat silent like air."

Michael scooted backwards so that he could rest his head upon the center of Brian's chest, kissing the taunt skin softly as he did so.

More than a little bemused, Brian stared at the dark head with a furrowed brow. Michael was acting a little...odd. The light in the room was odd. But everything else was perfect, and he once again decided that he could lay like this forever and be a very happy man.

Michael's words of seconds prior were vaguely reminiscent. A song? An apothegm? He couldn't remember, but knew Michael was not yet finished with his recitation.

"Call us free by a promise torn, you said I'll meet you there." The breath of each word teased his left nipple, muddling his attempts to decipher the cryptic remark.

"Meet you there." Michael lifted his head to look into Brian's eyes, the smile reappearing. "You know I'm there." A peck on the lips; ended before Brian could turn it into more.

"Mikey? What the fuck - "

"The person...was it me...or..." Michael drew back again, tangible fear wrinkling his forehead and dissipating his smile. Brian wanted to kiss him so badly it hurt, but the right time had yet to present itself. He was notorious for bad timing; this time, he vowed, he was going to get it right.

"....or what, Mikey?"

Michael regarded him nervously, and did something Brian had never seen him do in all the long, wonderful years of knowing him. He chewed his fingernails. To say it mildly disturbed him was an understatement.

"Stop that."

Michael blinked, in that confused way of his; like he had on the rooftop the night Gus was born. He continued biting at his nails.

"Stop what?" In answer, Brian pulled his hand away from his mouth.

"This." He kissed the offended fingertips lightly. "You never bite your nails."

"Was it me or Justin? The person you saw? That you see?"

"God, Mikey. You. Always you. Don't you know that? Always you." He stroked a pale cheek softly before clasping his hand securely behind Michael's neck. This time, he didn't let Michael pull away. He pulled him down on top of him in one smooth motion, taking his lips within his own and moaning softly at the fire that coursed through his body, down his spine, taking some erotic detours on the way. Michael allowed Brian to dominate the kiss, to devour his pliant lips as they melted into the heat of each other's bodies - and souls. Time seemed to slow.

Brian reached a hand underneath their crushed bodies to lift the corner of Michael's white t-shirt, yearning to feel soft skin against soft skin. Just as he was about to rest his hand along one of his many favorite places of Michael's body - the gentle curve of the small area between stomach and hip - Michael stilled his questing hand with a sharp hiss of breath, brown eyes pleading and tinted with barely perceptible pain.

Brian was momentarily frozen by the trickle of alarm that seeped through his consciousness. Staring into Michael's eyes, he pushed gently on his chest, putting just enough space between their bodies to allow him to pull the t-shirt all the way up to Michael's chest in one swift jerk.

Another sharp gasp pierced the silence, and he realized it was his own.

"Fuck."

The lower portion of Michael's stomach was a distorted myriad of unsightly bruises; black, purple, blue and yellow surging together in an angry cloud that marred perfect, pale flesh. The discolored contusions began to fade, though not much, to a dusty yellow at hipbones that were visible due to the low-rise of his jeans.

It was painful to even look at.

"What happened? Who the fuck did this to you? God dammit!" Brian felt pure rage flood his veins, his voice rising, prompting Michael to flinch unconsciously.

"Talk to me. Tell me who did this."

Something dark and amorphous flared in Michael's eyes. He looked away.

"Fuck! I want to know what bastard did this to you. Was it Ben? Is that fucker using steroids again?" He grabbed Michael's biceps, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Who did this to you?!?!"

"Why do you want to know?"

"What the hell - "

"How do you know this isn't what I look like...on the inside. That is, if you could see me from the inside out."

Brian glanced down at the horrifying bruises, tearing his eyes away as he felt another swell of anger hit him as forcefully as an ocean wave. His heart lurched and nausea surged when he saw that the massive bruise extended to cover Michael's lower back.

"But if you could, would you understand me? You told me we didn't understand each other anymore. So how can you understand this? If you think these bruises are painful - which they are - your words are even more so. This is what it does to me, everytime...on the inside."

Nausea overtook his anger. He went numb, held in place by Michael's eyes. So innocent, so full of love. He wanted to drown there.

With infinite gentleness, he turned Michael over onto his back, and laid to the side of him, mindful of his bruises. Michael watched with rapt eyes as he lowered his head to the abused skin, never breaking their gaze as he placed tender butterfly kisses all along the expanse of his undoubtedly sore stomach, seeking to soothe aches both external and internal.

"If I could take away everything," he murmured between wet kisses, occasionally blowing on one and absorbing Michael's appreciative shiver, "I would. Every word that ever hurt you. Every move that ever made you doubt me, doubt yourself. But I can't. It's who I am, and sometimes...I hate myself for it."

A finger smoothed over one hazel eyebrow to slowly trace the curve of his cheek. "I love you for it."

At the words, Brian held one soothing kiss longer than he had all the rest. Hearing those words fulfilled and brought to him more than any orgasm with a nameless trick ever had, ever would. He could almost feel Michael's smile, an acknowledgment of their unspoken language.

"Did you ever read the book "A Toad for Tuesday" when you were a kid?"

"Mmm nnnn," he hummed, lips still busy tenderly caressing black and purple flesh.

"I was reading it to Gus the other night. Before bed. You shoulda been there. He smelled so good, like the coconut baby shampoo Lindsay washes his hair with. His room is alot like mine was at his age...Spiderman on the bedspread, Captain Astro on the curtains. Anyway, he brought a book to me, and said, "Uncle Michowl, wead this to me?" And it was that book."

Brian stopped, looking up into Michael's distant eyes. With one last lingering kiss just below Michael's bellybutton, where the bruise was a particularly sickening shade of purple, he crawled up the bed and buried his face in the hollow between neck and collar bone, reaching blindly for Michael's hand and twining their cool fingers. He sighed contentedly, waiting for Michael to continue his story.

"The toad, Warton, decides to take beetle brittle to his Aunt, even though it is cold and the ground is covered with snow."

"'Beetle brittle'? Isn't that something your mom makes?" he teased, tightening his arms around Michael and nuzzling the softness of his neck with the tip of his nose. He loved Michael's neck. He loved Michael's scent. He always berated him on the rare occasions that he used cologne, dishing out a snide remark to cover up his true distaste for the manufactured fragrance.

Michael giggled, both from Brian's tease and from the ticklish sensation he was creating at his throat. "I think your confusing that with her meat loaf."

"Ohhh," he purred playfully, craning his neck to briefly bury his face in the silk of Michael's hair.

"You smell so good," he whispered, no longer afraid to speak his heart.

"So do you."

He trailed his lips along a feather light path of dewy kisses, starting at Michael's ear, gliding back down to the niche of his throat to rest there with a satisfied exhalation. "Go on. Tell me the story, Mikey."

"Warton decides to brave the cold anyway, being the brave and kind-hearted toad that he is. So he bundles himself up with many layers of warm sweaters, and dons a pair of skis, setting out on a three-day journey. But an owl swoops down and carries the toad to his lair, telling him he plans to eat him on Tuesday, five days away, as a birthday treat. Toads and owls are natural enemies, of course. But the toad and owl start to learn about each other, and the toad begins to see through the cold exterior of the owl, to the goodness of his heart. He sees that the owl is lonely, wanting only to be loved. They become close friends, so close that they realize their friendship is more important than being part of the food chain."

Brian heard Michael's breath grow faint, and panic shook him to the core.

"Mikey?"

"Yes?"

"Oh." Something weird was going on. He heard a rumbling in the distance, unable to pin point exactly what it was, so he dismissed it.

He leaned up to whisper in shell of Michael's ear.

"I wanna break the food chain, Mikey. I want more than friendship. Always have..."

"...Always will." Michael finished, leaning into the warmth of the lips that grazed his ear.

"I missed you."

"I know. But not enough."

"What?"

"Not enough to stop it. Not enough for us."

Brian realized with a jolt that the rumbling was thunder.

"What are you talking about?"

"You know the time and place between dreams and reality, between sleep and waking?"

"....Yeah..."

"I'll meet you there. But the sky won't be empty." He kissed Brian's forehead softly, framing his cheek with one hand.

Lightening briefly illuminated Michael's face, which was odd because the room had been suffused with light, a glow even, since he had awoken. Uneasiness caused him to tighten his hold on Michael, cleaving to the feel and touch of him, the soothing pressure of the warm lips grazing his forehead. The last thing he saw and heard was another blinding flash of lightening and a hair raising crack of thunder.

"No!"

He jerked forward violently, heavy breathing filling the cumbersome silence. Sweat soaked the sheets, chilling his body. Bright light shone through the octagon window which faced his side of the bed. The other side of the bed was empty and untouched. Justin hadn't come back last night. Just as well.

Fuck. A dream. It was all a dream. The thought almost pricked his eyes with tears; but then he remembered the less than favorable things that he had witnessed and tried to be thankful. To no avail.

That dream...to say it disturbed him more than anything had in a very long time was a tremendous understatement. It scared him fucking shitless. The fact that he couldn't drive to Michael's apartment and see him with his own two eyes (like he had a few times years ago when the occasional nightmare plagued his sleep) scared him even more. He had always covered it up with a sly "Can't a guy visit his best friend on a whim?" goosing Michael playfully while he brushed his teeth or holding him tight as he mumbled irritably in his rudely interrupted sleep. Brian Kinney wasn't supposed to believe in superstitions or premonitions. But Michael was his responsibility - fuck the Professor.

He took a shaky breath and raised an equally shaky hand to glance at the watch he had never removed in his drunken stupor the night before. 10:43 am.

"Shit!!! Sonoffa bitch, god damn fucking..." Spouting an incessant string of markedly vile profanities, he leap from the cold bed, puzzled as to why his alarm had failed to go off. He was three hours and forty-three minutes late. And he'd scolded Russ for two minutes.

Stark naked, he stopped dead in his tracks when he reached the kitchen area, greeted by the tableau of Justin, paper in hand, sipping his morning coffee leisurely, like a scene straight from Gay as Blazes.

"You little shit! Why the FUCK did you turn my alarm off!"

"Um, so you could sleep?" Justin drawled sarcastically. Brian, however, was in no mood to mince words. He stepped forward, glaring daggers as his fist connected solidly with the table, rattling its contents and causing Justin's steaming coffee to leap from the mug and into his lap. He yelped, jumping up and swatting at his crotch.

"What the fuck did you do that for?!"

"Don't fuck with my stuff ever again."

"Would you calm down! I called Russ. He's taking care of the agency today."

Brian steepled his fingers together, his voice laced with feigned patience. "And why, pray tell, did you do that, darling? So we could have tea and crumpets together? So you could get a good morning fuck?" His voice went from mock sweet to enraged in one second flat. "Because you think you can do whatever the fuck you deem necessary?!"

"Because you came in reeking of alcohol last night. Because I heard you talking in your sleep. Because I heard you asking for Michael," Justin said, never backing down, arms crossed defiantly.

Brian scowled, and turned to leave. Justin grabbed his arm.

"Did you know that other nights, when you came in drunk, you called me Mikey? You say his name in your sleep practically every night. You're constantly looking at pictures of him. I don't understand. Look around you, look at yourself. What are you doing here?" Justin's voice was unequivocal.

Brian jerked his arm from Justin's grasp.

"Mind your own fucking business."

"I plan to. From now on," he said to Brian's retreating back. Brian stopped, and turned slowly, facing the young man with what could only be described as an unmitigated weariness in the depths of his eyes and in the lines of his gloriously nude form.

"Justin...I want you to know that I care for you. I loved you, even. But I can't give you what you want, and I think you know that. So maybe...wherever you were last night, you should stay there this time."

Justin, to his credit and to Brian's surprise, smiled. "You know I loved you, so I don't need to say it. My bags are already packed. I always knew you could never give me everything. That belongs to someone else. Always has, and always will."

He walked up to Brian and kissed him softly on the cheek. "But I want to say thank you." With one last look, he walked to the door, a confidence and maturity in his steps that made Brian proud.

"Justin? Thank you, too."

Two men exchanged smiles, each headed for his own, separate destiny.

* * *

_TBC..._

**Author Note :** _The first set of lyrics are from "God Damn Me" by Filter. The second, quoted by Michael, are from Kosheen's "Empty Skies." Also, I adore the character of Cynthia, but she just couldn't suit my purposes for this story and I couldn't see her following Brian all the way out to California. So, I created Russ, who can see Brian's love for Michael, (from a unique perspective) similar to how I always imagined Cynthia does. (after all, she immediately knew the cause of Brian's grumpiness in 112)_


	7. Chapter Seven

**Author:** Samantha (Sam)

**Feedback: **I greatly appreciate feedback.

**Pairing:** B/M, of course, with initial B/J, Be/M overtones. T/E

**Rating:** R

**Genre:** Angst, Romance, WIP

**Summary:** Michael has some news for Brian. Brian can't cope, and

pushes Michael - and himself - too far.

**Special Thanks:** Everyone who has sent me such lovely feedback, on and off-list.

**Spoilers:** Through Season 4

**Warnings:** AU (which constitutes only the plot - NOT the characters),

WIP. And, er, its rather angsty. However, I promise when I say it

has a very happy ending.

**Disclaimer:** I'm just playing in Cowlip's sandbox. No profit is generated from this. QAF and Brian/Michael are not mine. But oh, if they were..._evil grin _

* * *

In a haze, a stormy haze, I'll be round  
I'll be loving you always, Always.  
Here I am and I'll take my time  
Here I am and I'll wait in line always,  
Always.

_Parachutes_ by **COLDPLAY **

**

* * *

**

**Be My Downfall**

_**Chapter 7 **_

Michael lay stretched across the bed he was supposed to be making, indulgently embracing an indescribable frame of mind that begged him to simply do nothing; thus prompting his earlier feat of flopping over onto the bed like a dead fish. A dead fish probably felt better.

Dead fish, indeed. Exactly what he was going to be if he didn't get his ass in gear, as he was sure his currently-not-speaking-to-him-mother would so benevolently bellow at him, were she present. Which - thank whatever God's were listening - she was not.

Ben wanted to take him out to eat tonight; to the same fancy restaurant with ridiculously exorbitant prices that David had taken him to on that first, inauspicious date. He hadn't told Ben this fact, nor that he rather not eat there, because of said fact. It was silly, really, but he couldn't change the way he felt. And God, if he could...well.

Living in the past. An expression Ben would surely shoot down with pointy little Buddhism arrows if it ever escaped Michael's lips, much less became an element of his mental regime.

Staring at the ceiling in utter detachment, he brushed his fingers across his throat, along the soft skin just beneath his jaw; rubbing at marks of passion that had long since faded, leaving the pale column smooth and flawless once again. So unlike the surface of his heart.

If he closed his eyes, he could feel Brian's lips trailing unmistakable fire along his neck. He could feel the scrape and nip of teeth. He could feel Brian's hands - smoothing down his sides, caressing his face, skirting over his ass...tracing the teeth of his zipper with a deft finger, teasing the hard cock within.

It always came back to him with staggering clarity, no matter what the circumstance - whether in his dreams, his husband's touch, or the idle moments at the store when his imagination ran free. But more than anything, he felt and remembered Brian's heat. His passion. His gaze. Michael had been burned by it; and knew, no matter how stubbornly he tried to persuade himself, that it was something Brian had never offered to anyone else. He didn't know how he knew, and he often wished he didn't.

Lazily, he swiveled his head to glance at the clock perched on the nightstand. 5:45. He sighed, throwing one arm across his forehead and the other to lay askew above his head. He didn't want to move. And he certainly didn't want to dress up and stare at food he knew he wouldn't eat, all the while scrutinized by Ben's analyzing gaze and audibly assaulted with cheesy elevator music and grating violins.

It was 2:45 PM in Los Angeles. He couldn't help but wonder what Brian was doing. Literally.

The sound of Ben snatched him from his reverie. Michael didn't have to see his husband to know that he would hang up his coat first, put his papers and bag by the table, then search him out for a hello kiss. It was a ritual he had come to love. But it was fleeting.

He felt more than saw the muscular form appear in front of the bedroom door, tan skin contrasting with the deep burgundy of his long sleeved shirt. He was casually rolling up his sleeves, having not yet looked up, instinctively knowing Michael was in the room as he greeted his lover.

"Hey, Babe."

Michael watched him from underneath lowered eyelids, waiting for the reaction he knew he would receive when Ben finally looked at him.

"Michael...why aren't you ready?"

Michael lay very still as Ben approached the bed, concern and confusion etched upon the sculptured lines of his face. The mattress bounced as Ben sat down beside him, one leg tucked underneath the other, and spread the back of his hand across Michael's forehead.

"I'm not sick."

"Oh." Ben withdrew the hand, his gaze sweeping over Michael's supine form, clad in sweats and a faded Captain Astro tee. "That's good."

When Michael offered no further explanation, eyes riveted to the ceiling, Ben inwardly sighed. Two months of this was alot for a man to take with tolerant composure.

He snaked his right hand down to Michael's stomach, rubbing in slow circles as he leaned down to whisper in his ear, kissing the underside of Michael's forearm on his way down.

"Then why don't you come take a shower with me? We'll get ready together."

Michael cocked his head to the side, brown eyes holding the barest hint of regret as his gaze locked onto Ben's.

Ben wasn't going to pretend that he did not recognize the abject misery he read in those incredible eyes. Nor was he going to pretend to not be privy to its source.

"I don't want to go."

Ben's head drooped, and he shook it softly, unable to repress a faint puff of breath.

"We were going to celebrate the completion of my book," he replied, somehow maintaining his projected serenity.

"I know, Ben. Can we celebrate here, in our own way?"

Ben suddenly sprang from the bed, turning away as he paced the length of the room.

"Dammit Michael, you won't go _anywhere_. Except to work, the gym, and Babylon. Everytime I try to do something together, or take you someplace special, its the same old excuse."

Michael's forehead crinkled as he propped his upper body onto his elbows, regarding Ben with narrowed eyes.

"You've cut yourself off from your friends - sometimes even me. You won't speak to your mother. You don't eat. You spend hours at the gym. I can count on one hand - one, hand Michael - the number of times we've had sex this month."

Michael took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I'm not living up to your standards of the model housewife."

Ben's hands fell in exasperation to slap against his thighs. "I knew I was forgetting one. You have a smart ass remark for everything I say."

Michael shrugged the best he could from his position, lips curved downwards in a display of indifference. His calm only served to further agitate Ben.

"I just don't feel like going out tonight. What's the big deal?"

"The big deal, Michael, is that you haven't felt like going out for two months. Ever since Brian left. We knew this would happen."

"'We'?" Michael bolted upright, eyebrows almost jumping into his hairline.

"Yes, 'we'. I knew, too. And if not for me, you would've found out."

"What the hell is this, Nazi Germany, Pittsburgh style? Everybody suddenly sticking their big noses into my life and deciding what I do and do not need to know? Even my husband?"

"It's called looking out for someone you care about."

Michael snorted. "When did you turn into my mother?"

Ben jerked his head to look out the window - not that there was alot to see out it, but in a ruse to avoid eye-to-eye connection - and visibly bristled. Michael was surprised to find that he was unable to read his expression, but saw without question the sadness that ghosted across the ocean blue of Ben's eyes.

"Why can you not just...let go, Michael?"

"Twenty years of love and loyalty is alot to just 'let go of', Ben. He's my best friend."

Ben nodded his head in quiescent understanding; but the gesture was abound with reluctance. The best friend line was growing cumbersome and weary.

"It is also alot to hold onto. Everything comes to an end."

"Not some things," Michael said softly, his eyes shifting to gaze out the window that held Ben's attention.

"You're still in love with him."

"I never stopped being in love with him. Falling in love with him." The boldness of Michael's response seemed to startle them both into silence as brown eyes locked onto cerulean blue. Snowflakes began to flutter past the window, melting to glistening teardrops of icy liquid as they touched the temperate surface of the window pane.

The silence lingered, somehow deepened by the peaceful fall of silvery flakes. It seemed that neither was particularly anxious to confront those things that remained unspoken.

"Then why did you marry me." He did not break his gaze when he spoke. The words were not questioning, merely stated with almost weary resignation; as if from the very beginning, he held no abiding faith in their pledged coupling.

"Because I love you," Michael snapped, not bothering to conceal the depth of his wounded feelings as he gaped at his husband.

"You are the one who told me it was okay to be in love with two people. And, if possible, I loved you even more for saying it, for understanding. Because no one else would. But you did."

"But this, Michael...this..," he gestured at some unseen force, "cannot go on. Even a blind man could see that you love Brian with every fiber of your being. When Brian left; a part of you went with him. You're not the same man I fell in love with. Instead of turning to me, you've turned away from me. That is not true love, Michael."

Michael felt an enormous weight settle over him, and was sure it was reflected in his eyes from the way Ben blinked rapidly and shifted his feet, small movements Michael had come to distinguish as apprehension.

Michael couldn't stifle the sad smile that curved his lips. "Everything is always a textbook description with you."

Ben let out a classic huff and puff - the kind that impertinent children got spankings over - and shifted to lean a forearm against the doorjamb.

"I'm human too, Michael. I have my fears, my weaknesses. I don't suppose you ever stopped to think that maybe I'm afraid of loosing what I've looked for my entire life, and have finally found."

"You have so little faith in me?"

"It's not you. It's...a bond that I can't touch nor comprehend. It has nothing to do with you; my fear is something that has been part of your life, your heart, since you were fourteen. Something I can never compare with."

"So that's why you didn't tell me Brian was leaving? No wonder you were so compassionate that night. Your little manipulative scheme prevailed." Michael was unwilling to keep the icy edge from his tone. Ben, his husband, the man who had vowed to honor him forever - had essentially lied to him.

"It was NOT manipulation," Ben said, his voice rising to match Michael's.

"Really? Self-preservation, then? That what they call it at Carnegie Mellon?" Michael abruptly surged off the bed, turning his back to Ben as he grabbed the wadded lump of sheets from the foot of the mattress, jerking them with a flick of his wrists that created a soft pop as the fabric settled smoothly over the expanse of the bed. He went on with his task, ignoring the other man in the room. Quietly seething.

Ben realized a trifle too late that he had awakened the very pissed, fiery side of Michael's persona that few knew existed, far beneath the infinite patience and good-natured aplomb. For the first time, it wasn't a turn-on.

"Michael, look - I understand you're upset that Brian moved away, but you've been - "

"You have NO idea how I feel. You always think you do, but you don't."

"When have I EVER - "

"Christ. For starters, how about the fact that you _must _remind me at least every month that I don't know what it's like to be positive."

"That has absolutely NOTHING to do with what - "

Michael, blessed with the sharper hearing, heard the creak of the front door and shot Ben a sharp gaze of warning, the message delivered loud and clear as Ben immediately silenced. _We're not going to do this in front of him._

But it was done too late.

"Do I sense the rumblings of a domestic disturbance?"

Hunter's face, alight with a mischievous grin, peered around the corner, cheeks flushed a rosy pink from the chill of December air. Snowflakes still clung to the mop of auburn hair, melting almost instantaneously with the warmth of the apartment.

"No, Hunter," Michael said, arms crossed and eyes boring pointedly into Ben's stoic features, "Ben and I were just discussing some things."

"Well, put your hormonal spit-spat aside. Look what came in the mail!"

Hunter sauntered into the room, waving two manilla envelopes in front of his face. He shifted one to each hand, outstretching his left arm to Michael, "One for you," and his right arm to Ben, "And one for you," forcing the riled men to walk towards each other.

They snatched the envelopes from his hand simultaneously, not exactly refraining from sharing not very subtle glares. Hunter withdrew his arms to his chest, a satisfied smirk pursing his lips. They stepped back, examining the respective addresses.

"It's from Brett."

"It's from my publisher."

"Well, open them, before we fossilize!" Hunter was almost bouncing.

Nothing but the sound of ruffling paper filled the room for several moments, as both Michael and Ben stood staring down at the contents with mouths agape and eyes wide.

"You go first," Ben said, visibly gulping as he offered a weak smile.

"It's...it's...I don't believe it. Ten thousand dollars...and he wants me to start on the script. He wants me to write the script!" Michael grabbed Hunter in a fierce hug, jumping up and down with unadulterated joy.

"Dude!" Hunter drawled, matching Michael jump for elated jump.

The decision of whether Michael, or an experienced, professional screenwriter would develop the script for Rage had been pending. Brett had been pulling for the former, the studio the latter. Michael hadn't entertained high hopes, knowing that the inner workings of Hollywood didn't exactly favor the small guy.

"Damn, what a rush," Michael said breathlessly, face still wreathed in a huge smile as he stared down at Brett's slapdash handwriting with childlike wonderment.

Hunter shook the hair from his eyes, peering over Michael's shoulder. "We're gonna be rich! And famous!" They exchanged gleeful smiles, but the sparkle in Michael's eyes promptly fizzled as he lifted his gaze to that of his husband's and was met with a smile that was markedly strained; unenthusiastic and procacious.

"Congratulations."

"Thanks," Michael replied softly, disconcerted by the nagging feeling that Ben had not entirely meant it. "What did your publisher say?" He had a idea that it wasn't all that grand. He walked over to Ben, resting an encouraging hand on his bicep, innate unconditional support and compassion negating any remnants of anger.

"They...rejected it."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah."

"But you can try again, right? With a different publisher? I read that very few authors make it the first try."

"That's not the point, Michael. I went to college, studied literature for years - preparing for this. I guess I would've been better off with no college education, no experience at all. Nothing."

Ben didn't hang around to witness the pain he had so flippantly been the giver of. As soon as the embittered jeer left his mouth, he turned on his heels and stormed out the door, leaving the appartment heavy with stunned silence. It was difficult to tell who was the more astonished; Hunter, or the raven haired man who stood eerily still, no emotion discernable on his face save for the flicker of pain deep within eyes that revealed everything, and hid nothing.

The silence seemed to stretch and thicken. Was is possible to _hear_ the fall of snowflakes?

"Hunter." The teen flinched at the hoarseness of Michael's voice, finally mustering the courage to bring his eyes away from the window and to Michael's face. He flinched again.

"You better go do your homework." Michael's gaze was unfocused, fixed on something only he could see. Hunter briefly wondered if he was thinking about Brian.

He was snapped out of thought when Michael suddenly leapt to his feet, in the manner of a man who must move - or explode where he stands - lifting his t-shirt over his head and pulling a purple tank from the dresser in one combined motion. Black jeans were soon to follow, along with his watch and tennis shoes. Hunter remained frozen in place, staring at one of the two men who had changed his life, wondering what was to happen, what had _just_ happened.

Michael looked up at him with a tremulous smile as he stuffed his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans.

"How's Algebra coming along?"

"Fuck Algebra, where are you going?"

Michael placed a reassuring hand on Hunter's slim shoulder, another flash of pain ripping through him when he glimpsed the raw fear in eyes wide and glossy; heightened when he felt a slight tremor shake the lanky frame.

He leaned forward - not having to lean _down_, since Hunter was nearly as tall as he - and placed a chaste kiss of solace on the cold brow, seeking to assuage quiet fears.

"Haven't I told you not to use that word?"

"I can't help it. It was imprinted on my vocabulary at birth." His eyes tracked Michael as the small man walked briskly from the bedroom, yanking on his jacket with a haste Hunter rarely saw him subsume.

"You didn't answer my question: where are you going?"

"To think."

* * *

"Cosmo, please."

Emmett flashed his most enthusiastic smile. Fidgeting with anything in reach, the bartender was obviously new and decidedly young. Might as well put him to good use.

"I can't believe we're actually going to do this. It's like something out of a fairy tale," Emmett said, a quiver of excitement jumbling his words. He leaned over and kissed a mellow Theodore Schdmit on the temple.

"Excited?" Emmett prompted when Ted merely smiled, gazing out at the dance floor with a thoughtful expression.

"Yeah. Just worried, I guess." Ted shrugged.

"About us? Honey, if you don't think its a good idea, then..."

Ted heaved a sigh, turning to face the bar. "No, it's not that. I'm worried about Michael."

Emmett nodded. He was worried about Michael, too - but he thought it best not to say so, or else Ted would_ really _start to worry in earnest. And that was not a good thing.

"I wouldn't worry too much, Teddy. Michael's going through alot of adjustments right now. Getting married, raising a teen, working on _Rage_, realizing he's gonna be a daddy soon..."

"...life without _Brian_...," Ted singsonged back at Emmett.

"Yes. That too. But it's been two months. I think it has less to do with that and more to do with life in general. Everyone has their down times."

Ted was in no mood to be consoled. "They're not even speaking to each other. And it's affecting him, Em, affecting him bad. He's not the same Michael."

Em could hardly argue with that, nor could he insult Ted's perceptiveness. His thoughts briefly wandered back to that night in Michael's apartment; on how lifeless Michael's eyes had been, the vivacious spark replaced with a chasm of emptiness. Now that Brian was actually gone, well...Emmett suppressed a shiver.

"He's strong Teddy. He just needs time."

Ted regarded him solemnly. "That's what I'm afraid of."

"What do you mean?"

Ted shook his head in reluctant dismissal, but Emmett prodded. "C'mon, we're all men here, tell me," Emmett said, trying to bring back some of the levity they had indulged in earlier. He didn't particularly like this subject, nor the insinuations it imposed.

"I just can't help but have this feeling that one day, it's all going to be too much for him. That there'll be this one thing that will be the catalyst." Ted paused, as if dragging - with great effort - the words from himself. "And he'll crack."

Ted wouldn't meet Emmett's gaze - and Emmett silently thanked God for small mercies, because he knew his expression belied the comment already flowing from the tip of his tongue.

"Ted, honey - you're blowing this completely out of proportion."

"Who's gettin' blowed out of proportion? _That's_ gotta hurt."

Emmett spun on a booted heal, instantly and thoroughly nonplused by the sight of a grinning Michael Novotny. He found that his facial muscles had suddenly gone slack, because he couldn't find the inclination to grin back - for there was something _very_ wrong with Michael's grin.

"Oh! Er...um...Michael! What're you doing here?"

"Anything _but_ what most people come here to do. Get laid. Get drunk. Get high."

Emmett tried to conceal the extent of his surprise, thus delaying his brain's to proficiency to correctly interpret Michael's reply. _He did say he was coming here _not_**** to do those things, right? _

Michael leaned against the bar, supporting his weight with an elbow as he signaled to the bartender with a wave of his hand. The grin on his face had vanquished; replaced with...nothing. A blank. He didn't seem to notice Ted and Emmett's shared glances of unease and concern, or the way they observed him as if he'd suddenly sprouted horns in the middle of his forehead.

"I thought you and Ben were going out, to celebrate?" Ted raised his voice to be heard over the heavy bass that dominated the opening riff of a new, racier song.

Michael's head snapped around to look at him, brown eyes afire with something not quite scrutable. "Nothing to celebrate." He snorted a short, embittered laugh. "Seems his publishers rejected him."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that, sweetie."

Only a few times had Ted and Emmett ever felt uncomfortable around Michael, or stood at a complete loss for words. This proved to be one of those times.

"What's a guy gotta do to get a drink around here?" Michael snarled, turning his head away in agitation to scope the dance floor.

"New kids. Look's like their recruiting third graders now," Emmett said with a rueful shake of his head, leaning forward to peer behind the obstructing line of human heads, only to find not a buff bartender in sight. "Probably making trips to the back room between mixes."

Ted grimaced. "Ugh. They better wash their fuckin' hands."

Michael sighed, and without a trace of pretense, leaped with fluid grace over the counter, landing nimbly on the opposite side. He prowled along the shelves, eyes scanning, until he stopped and grabbed the desired bottle with a triumphant smirk.

Ted and Emmett could only watch, dumbfounded, as Michael poured himself shot after shot, hardly pausing, downing each glass of amber liquid with reckless fluidity. He slouched lazily against the bar, one hip unmindfully moving to the balmy rhythm.

Emmett shook himself from his stupor, and gently grabbed Michael's wrist,

"Michael, don't binge drink. You'll make yourself sick."

"Yeah, yeah, the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration says it's dangerous, risky, irresponsible...I know. So. What've you guys been up to?"

"We'll tell you if you get back over here..._without_ the bottle."

Much to their dismay, Michael downed three more shots before hopping back over to the other side, stumbling slightly as his feet met solid ground. He was suddenly happy-go-lucky; gazing at them with curious eyes - but they knew it was simply the potency of the alcohol, already beginning to take effect.

"Resorting to blackmail is dirty play, Em." Michael laced his hands behind his neck, shaking his head in mock admonishment.

A hesitant tap on Emmett's shoulder rescued him from the absurdity of Michael's drastic mood change - momentarily, at least. The young bartender shyly scooted the cosmo across the bar, the liquid within tinged entirely to red. Emmett repressed a sigh. Too much cranberry juice.

He glanced back over at Michael, who's glass was being hastily refilled by the jittery twink, perhaps trying to atone for his prolonged absence. Michael shrugged as he caught Emmett's cautionary glare.

"Don't want it to go to waste," he raised the glass in a toast, then downed it. That had to be at least the tenth one.

Emmett frowned. This was wreaking havoc on his nervous system. He turned to make sure Ted was still breathing and conscious.

He was; and reached out a tentative hand to sweep across the top of soft, gelled spikes.

"You changed your hair."

"Yep. You like?"

"Well, it, uh, definitely makes you look younger, which around here is a blessing _and_ a curse," Emmett said wryly over the lip of his cosmo, cringing as the tangy liquid swirled around on his tongue. This was undeniably one of the weirdest nights at Babylon he'd experienced in quite some time.

"Changed your clothes a bit, too," Ted mumbled, running a thumb down the buttery softness of Michael's leather jacket.

"Not really. Ben got this for me while we were in Boston. Never really thought of it as my style. Until now."

"Oh?" Emmett crooned with an arched brow, "and why is that?"

"Dunno. So are you guys gonna tell me what you've been up to, or are we going to keep playing Twenty Questions?"

"Actually - ironically - we're kinda glad you're here. See, Teddy and I have been thinking about something for quite a while now. We're not one hundred percent sure yet, but still, we wanted you and Ben to be the first to know, since you were the source of our inspiration."

"'Inspiration'?" Michael's tone held a note of disbelief.

"Mmm hmm. So where is Ben, anyway?" Emmett cast Michael a sidelong glance, gauging his reaction.

Michael shrugged, affecting an air of nonchalance. "I don't know. He got a little upset over his rejection and left. Said he needed time to think." No harm in stretching the truth a little. Might as well indulge in a little _self-preservation. _

"That's understandable. He must've worked very hard."

"It's not the fuckin' end of the world," Michael groused, jerking his head away angrily.

"No, it's not. But still disappointing, I'd imagine." Emmett was startled by Michael's lack of compassion, for his own husband no less. Something must have happened, _had _to have happened, for Michael to be so uncharacteristically harsh.

"And?"

"Hmm?" Emmett hummed through his cosmo, startled from his thoughts.

"Aren't you going to tell me what this divine inspiration is?" Michael said lightly, his tenor a complete three hundred and sixty degree turn from seconds prior. Emmett blinked. This was like a Michael with double personalities - and you never knew which one you'd get next.

"Ohhh, okay - I think you've waited long enough. You know how I love to create a little dramatic _suspense_."

"I've got plenty of that in my life, thanks," Michael replied dryly.

"Jesus Em, will you just get to the point already," Ted hissed, finally able to break his traumatized silence. Having his speculated prediction come alive before his very eyes - THIS one, in particular - was NOT an emboldening thing.

"_Mrrr-OW_," Emmett drawled, raising a curved hand in simulation of a particularly miffed cat. "You two must be on the fag rag."

He received a scowl from either side. "Okay okay! So I'll dish already." He made a show of clearing his throat and popping his knuckles. "Teddy and I have decided, after much consideration, and after witnessing an amazingly beautiful and inspiring example - that we want to get married."

Ted continued with a gleam of excitement in his eyes. "Not a big deal, but similar to what you and Ben did. We'd like to have some kind of ceremony afterwards, though, here in the Pitts. For friends and family. And for sentimental purposes." He smiled fondly at Emmett, who emitted a touched '_awwww' _and leaned over to peck Ted on the lips with an emphasized _'mua'_.

Michael's smile was bittersweet. They were perfect for each other. But then; he had thought the same of he and Ben.

"I'm happy for you." He looked away, closing his eyes against the nausea that threatened to rise within him. Where had he gone wrong? Why did he keep failing?

He firmly told himself that it wasn't over with Ben. But how could he stay with someone who manipulated him? Insulted his intelligence? Used illegal drugs behind his back? And most hurtful of all, doubted the entirety of his love?

The painful truth was : he couldn't. Still, the insistent and ever cynical voice inside his head mercilessly taunted him, mocked him. _How can you bring yourself to break the vow of marriage? It's supposed to be forever, remember? Where's your virture? What's so noble and holy about a divorce?_

He felt the prick of tears as he rolled the gold wedding band around his finger, marveling at its metallic coldness.

Then, everything faded away, the music dulling as the desultory movements of blissed out-dancers slowed and blurred. His mind played over the moment Ben had slipped the band over his finger, his smile so bright and his eyes so content, looking down upon him as if he were the center of the universe. The way he had kissed him; so slowly, so gratefully, as if he were the luckiest man on the face of the earth. And Michael had soared with him.

Then he saw Brian, felt strong arms wrap around him, pull him tight, encapsulate him in a warmth that emanated from two joined souls, two halves of a perfect whole. He felt soft lips graze his ear, heard a silky voice whisper in the shell with desperate urgency.

_Does he make you happy? _

_Kiss it, touch it...just don't fall in love with it. _

_**Nobody's** too good for you Mikey, your better than anyone. _

Then, as quickly as it had began, the barrage of two distinct voices and sensations deliquesced, and the cacophonous blare of Babylon's lights and sounds crashed down upon him with smothering force, and he was left with **the** revelation - and headache - from hell.

_What have I done? I've lost them. Both of them  
_

He realized, through the haze, that someone was repeatedly and adamantly calling his name.

_I did exactly what I told myself I would not do. _

**"Michael!" **

Snap.

"Wh-at?"

"Don't scare us like that! You just...blanked out. Where did you go?!"

"To hell," he whispered, his words lost amongst the tactile vibration of an erratically thumping beat.

"What?" Emmett quirked a brow, shaking Michael's shoulders lightly, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Sweety, what's the matter?" Beads of sweat dotted Michael's forehead and upper lip, and his skin was almost translucent. But most disturbing of all - were his eyes. Emmett couldn't begin to describe them, and he didn't think he wanted try.

Michael returned Emmett's grip, clasping the taller man's biceps and staring into his eyes with unrestrained urgency. "I want you to do something for me. Before you get married, think long, and think very, very hard. Because you were right. It changes everything."

And with that, Michael vanished into the oscillating mass of sweaty flesh, never once looking back.

* * *

_**NEXT DAY - TORSO'S**_

Emmett strutted from the storage room, folding a _fabulous_ little pink tank and humming along with the latest from _No Doubt. _It was a slow day, but Tuesday's usually were, not to mention the weather was more than a determent - it was practically an Antartic blizzard. So far, there had been only two people in the store; a charming old queen who had asked for assistance in finding something modest for a impromptu date, and a young man who seemed to take especial liking to the winter leather collection.

He was pricing today; moving reduced items to the clearance racks and laying out the new shipments in the most eye-catching arrangements possible - a task he was rather good at, if he did say so himself. He loved being assigned this particular chore, for he always stumbled across an alluring, sexy top (no pun intended) that had been hiding on the back shelves, or a flattering pair of jeans that were just too enticing to pass up. He also had the added bonus of receiving a discount - being an employee and all - so he didn't feel nearly as guilty on those occasions he found himself splurging unexpectedly and going home with three new shirts in tow that he really didn't need.

Boxes around his feet, Emmett's nose scrunched up in chagrined distaste as he wiggled an exceptionally tacky shirt over the front of a mannequin. He wouldn't be caught _dead _in such a fashion humiliation. It was downright gaudy (and if anyone knew what constituted gaudy, it was him) sporting a splattering of lime green polka-dots against a base of tarnished brown, embellished with claw-like tears along the upper abdomen portion. Very unflattering colors for one's complexion. He angled the mannequin, inspecting the back of the shirt with a critical eye. Oh my - _quite_ unflattering. The back was adorned in frilly ruffles, assuring the wearer a very unbecoming Quasimodo physique. However, he mused, it _might _work for the outlandishly skinny twink.

A ringing in his ear piece jarred him from his critique.

"_Torso's, _how may I help you," He chirped, his intonation the epitome of a chivalrous salesman.

"Yeah," the voice growled, "I need to speak to an Emmett Honeycutt."

"....This is he," Emmett replied, a nuance of wariness in his voice.

"I'm from the Pittsburgh Police Department. We've received allegations that you and a Mr. Theodore Schdmit were seen publicly engaging in lewd and lascivious acts in the back of a 2001 Ford Convertible. We have a warrant for your arrest."

"Oh...Oh my _God_..." Emmett raised a hand to flutter over his heart.

The deep, burly voice barked a choked, hacking cough. Emmett suddenly had the vision of a luridly hirsute, three hundred pound homophobic straight man with beady eyes and a permanent scowl, tapping a nightstick in his palm as he sneered through the jail bars. He shivered.

"Officer, Sir - this has to be a mistake - "

"No mistake, Honeycutt. Get your ass down here..._pronto_." The gruff voice paused, but an entirely different voice resumed. "Oh, and bring Bullwinkle while your at it."

Only one person called Ted _Bullwinkle_, and only one person belonged to that voice.

"**Brian**!!! You _ass_!" Emmett allowed himself an indignant stomp of his foot. He couldn't count the number of times Brian had duped him like this - must've been hundreds just when he and Michael were still living in the apartment together. Those had been fun times.

He waited for the peals of laughter to subside, occupying himself by folding a box full of navy blue sweaters into a stack of neat and tidy squares.

"That was a really asinine thing to do, Brian," Emmett pouted, not quite succeeding in keeping the laughter from creeping into his own voice.

Brian feigned seriousness. "I know - you and Theodore really should refrain from sex in vehicles. No wonder that car of his keeps breaking down. And you wouldn't want some poor unsuspecting cop with clogged arteries and a faint heart to drop over dead, now would you? Could be Horvath."

"Hardee-har-har. The wit must really be dry out there in the Golden State," Emmett drolled. "So what the fuck are you doing calling _me_? No one's heard a word from you in months. I'm the last person I'd expect you to call."

"I needed a pick-me-up."

"Riiight. You mean you needed someone to humiliate."

"Same difference. So how are things in Frostbite Falls, Moosylvania?" Brian queried with characteristic smugness, falling back on their inside _Rocky and Bullwinkle _joke.

"Hmph. Colder than a witches tit. It's been snowing non-stop for nearly twenty-four hours."

"Emmett, if I wanted to know the weather, I would've consulted the Weather Channel."

"Oh yes, I forgot you don't engage in....what's the word? Small talk."

"I like to occupy my mouth with something other than lesbianism."

"So who else have you called?"

"A few. I thought I'd see how Liberty Avenue's favoritest Nelly bottom was doing first."

"How should I know. He's there with you."

"_Was _here with me."

"You two broke up?"

"You sound so shocked, Honeycutt. Surely you don't believe those sappy assed jewelry commercials, 'true love is forever'?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I do. And don't call me Honeycutt. What happened?"

Brian laughed. "I guess you could say he moved on to greener pastures."

"Oh...well...sorry." He knew from bitter experience not to press the issue.

"How's Michael?" Brian queried, almost tentatively.

The question was so out of the blue that Emmett dropped a sweater he'd been folding.

"Don't you think you should call and ask him yourself?"

"I don't think he'd appreciate it. Besides, I might cut in on some extra-marital activities."

"I think he'd really like to talk to you, Brian. He needs to talk to you."

"Why?" Brian barked, not bothering to disguise his concern.

"You know," Emmett said casually, "he's got alot going on. _Rage_, Hunter, married life," Brian snorted, "not to mention that his mother's not speaking to him."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. It's none of my business."

"Are pigs flying?"

"But I think it has something to do you with you. Always does."

Little did Emmett know that thousands of miles away, Brian winced. The last thing he had wanted to do was cause unneeded friction between Michael and his mother. God knows there was enough already.

Brian's sigh was very gentle. "Always is a pretty strong word." _Very strong_, he silently added.

"Well, _usually_, then. You do realize how badly you've hurt him."

The pained silence was almost tangible, and for a moment - just a moment - Emmett wished he could take back his words.

Brian's voice was tenuous when he finally spoke. "It was for the best." His tone was one of someone uttering a remark made so often it had become rote.

"The best for YOU, maybe, but not for him. You could have at least had the decency to say goodbye."

"But I have a beastly, indecent reputation to uphold."

"I bet thats not a hard thing to do in the City of Sin," Emmett replied dryly.

"That's Las Vegas, Emmett," Brian said, with an unmistakable note of amused pity.

"Whatever. I hope it's all what it's cracked up to be," Emmett snapped, patently annoyed.

"It's not."

"Color me surprised," Emmett replied sardonically; but in truth he WAS surprised - that Brian had actually admitted it - and to _him_, of all unlikely people.

"You're lucky you left when you did, because I was planning to pay you a visit." His ominous tone implied that it would NOT have been a visit of the friendly sort.

"Aww, Emmett, how sweet."

"I'm not joking, Brian. The night after our get together at Babylon...Michael was very upset."

"He told you didn't he." There was no doubt nor question in Brian's words, nothing but a firm certitude. Maybe even...relief?

"He tells me more than you think," Emmett shot back, knowing that behind his statement was the connotation that he was one of the few who knew exactly the reason for Brian's rash decision. He could almost see this fact registering in Brian's eyes; see the wheels turning and the defenses raising, that scathing tongue sharpening for battle. The silence was nearly deafening, and for a moment, Emmett feared Brian had hung up.

"You never answered my question. Why aren't you talking to him?"

"Mind your own business."

"Me can do," Emmett mumbled, his words muffled as he held a sweater between chin and chest, tucking the hem up beneath itself. It suddenly dawned on him how...uncharacteristically unhappy Brian sounded. Shouldn't he be having the time of his life? Fucking all the bronzed and beautiful studs of California?

"I just want to know how he's doing," Brian whispered, so soft Emmett could barely hear him.

"Well, if you wanted to know how Michael's doing, you should consult Michael," Emmett replied, throwing Brian's sarcastic words of earlier back at him.

"C'mon Em, you love to gossip. So tell me some juicy bits," Brian said, affecting the voice of the cliched 'nosy old woman'.

"No. I mean it. Get some balls - call him yourself. You sound like you need to."

A surprised pause. "And just how DO I sound?"

"You really wanna know?" Emmett said, halting his folding.

"I wouldn't have asked, would I?"

"Miserable. Lonely. Hurting. Now I wonder if any of that has to do with Michael?" Emmett said, more to himself than to Brian, emphasizing his words with plenary inquisitiveness.

The bell over the door jangled. Damn! What timing.

"I do miss him, Emmett."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

"You don't notice much, anyway," Brian said with a chuckle.

"Oh shit," Emmett hissed, "well I just noticed this. Brian, I gotta go. There's a kid swinging from the front display."

Brian snickered. "By all means, I shall let Captain Honeycutt go save the day. But Em - one thing. You won't tell him I called?"

Emmett sniffed. "Wild horses couldn't drag it from me," he said, in a tone that blatantly implied the exact opposite.

"Cut the shit already," Brian growled.

"I'm through keeping secrets for people," he said pointedly, grimacing from the memory of Debbie's raving sermon the morning Michael had left for Boston, followed by her befitting insistence that he take an oath on the Bible, swearing that he would NOT tell Michael.

Brian heaved an impatient sigh. "Fine. Just tell him that...I'll see him soon."

The line clicked before Emmett was able to enquire further, and he stared at the mouth piece with a furrowed brow, as if it might offer an explanation.

Never had he dreamed that befriending Michael Novotny twelve years ago would have made his life so interesting, if not nerve-rendering, he thought, thinking back on the weird events of the night before.

He shook his head, and went to save the display from certain doom.

_

* * *

_

_TBC...._

_Author's Note : And their journey towards each other continues. Not long now. Thanks for coming along for the ride. :) _


	8. Chapter Eight

**Author:** Samantha (Sam)

**Feedback: **I greatly appreciate feedback.

**Pairing:** B/M, of course, with initial B/J, Be/M overtones. T/E

**Rating:** R

**Genre:** Angst, Romance, WIP

**Summary:** Michael has some news for Brian. Brian can't cope, and pushes Michael - and himself - too far.

**Special Thanks:** Everyone who has sent me such lovely feedback, on and off-list.

**Spoilers:** Through Season 4

**Warnings:** AU (which constitutes only the plot - NOT the characters), WIP. And, er, its rather angsty. However, I promise when I say it has a very happy ending.

**Disclaimer:** I'm just playing in Cowlip's sandbox. No profit is generated from this. QAF and Brian/Michael are not mine. But oh, if they were..._evil grin _

**_Author Note : _**I will warn my readers that I am not exactly nice to Ben in this chapter. Also, certain parts are rather dark.

****

* * *

What lies behind us, and what lies before us, are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.  
**-- Ralph Waldo Emerson --**

**

* * *

**

**BE MY DOWNFALL **

_**Chapter Eight **_

Black coffee.

A gentle catharsis; suffusing the ceramic of the simple mug with languorous warmth, in turn suffusing the hand that encircled it, maybe even the soul - for he exhaled and inhaled the quelling scent with each preoccupied breath.

Michael had never stopped to appreciate the regenerative effects of something so ostensibly austere as coffee; but here he was, captivated by the way the steam drifted skyward to bathe his face in an intoxicating blend of moisture, warmth, and stimulating aroma.

It might, he considered, have something to do with the fact that the night prior, he had consumed more alcohol than he had in the last two years combined.

But whatever it was, it didn't matter. All that mattered was him, his cup of beautifully frothed coffee, and the comfy nest he had created for himself on the worn old couch he never remembered being quite so comfy before. And the silence - couldn't forget the silence; glorious, exquisite silence.

It was a matter of minutes before dawn - the still moment of time where the heavens are a painter's canvas; a perfect bisection of fleeting stars against a backdrop of obsidian sky, mingled with a fusion of pastel clouds and wispy rays of orange and slivered luminescence. However, to the comatose man on the couch, it was merely - regrettably - the ass crack of dawn. Nothing flowery nor poetic about it. Especially not when there was a jackhammer in your head, one hour of sleep to your name, and a foot of snow on the ground.

He shifted his free hand - ever, ever so slowly - to tuck the fuzzy afghan closer to his bare side, halting the sudden flow of chilly air. That was better.

He instinctively knew, without seeking a clock, that Hunter and Ben would be up any second, initiating their morning routines before school and work, respectively. Which...oh God...meant noise...and..._lights. _He burrowed further into the couch, wishing it would just open up and swallow him (now wasn't THAT a pervy thought to have about your couch). He was getting too old for this shit, the dismal side of him grumped. He never remembered being this hung-over back in his glory days.

He paused mid sip, and frowned thoughtfully, reflecting on why he had just classified his twenties as his 'glory days' - and the answer was immediate. Because it had been just the two of them. Michael and Brian.

He thought back on his first _real_ hangover, and smiled. He'd been a rowdy (at least when in Brian's presence), insatiable boy of eighteen, and Brian had been a freshman in college of likewise virility. He remembered they had partied particularly hard that night beneath the glittering strobe lights of Babylon's dance floor, and as a circumstance, he ended up spending the night under Brian's watchful eye in his cramped - but never messy - dorm room, awakening the following morning with something akin to an elephant sitting on his head. It was only alleviated by the fact that first thing he had managed to pry his eyes open to, was Brian; propped up on an elbow and staring down at him with amused empathy. "Mikey has a hangover", he'd singsonged, smacking a wet kiss on his cheek. And Michael had thought at that exact moment - certainly not for the first time - that he wanted nothing more than to wake-up to that face every morning for the rest of his life.

Toeing the line of incoherency, he'd merely eyeballed the much too cheery face with blurred vision, watching in disbelief as the blur rose from the bed, clad only in snug boxers, and brought back to him a cup of steaming coffee, thrusting it under his nose with an uncharacteristic smile.

Brian Kinney, bringing _anyone_ coffee? _In bed_? No. That just wasn't possible. But it had happened, and Michael had decided that even though he didn't have the intimacy of his body, or the waking image of his beautiful face every morning - he had this. The Brian Kinney no one saw, that no one was allowed to see. The caring, compassionate man who loved with his entire being.

That was the first - and last - time _that_ particular phenomenon occurred, but he cherished it nonetheless.

For the next hour, they had been content to simply lay smushed together in Brian's tiny bed - laughing and goofing as if they were fourteen and up in Michael's old room, getting high on cheap pot and fanning it out the window - until it was time for Brian to leave for class. He had insisted that Michael was welcome to stay as long as he needed, but Michael had reluctantly lugged himself out of the bed, and pieced his clothes back on with questionable precision, determined to accompany Brian the one mile walk to campus. He remembered the look in Brian's eyes when they reached their destination, remembered how time seemed to slow as they stood there, staring into each other's eyes, surrounded by milling students yet oblivious to everything else in the world as Brian pulled him in for a kiss - long, slow, unabashed. Michael's lips burned from the memory of it.

That was the last time they would see each other for three long weeks.

Michael shivered, feeling the familiar ache rise within his heart. The coffee suddenly wasn't that remarkable anymore, as reality began to assail him in small, painful increments. He almost wished he were drunk again; blithely ignorant to the reason he felt as if he were walking around with half a heart, half a soul, and half a mind.

He took a long, appreciative sip of the swarthy liquid, eyelashes fluttering as he savored what little time he had left alone.

"CRAWLING IN MY SKIN...."

"Fuck!!!"

He didn't know how he kept his coffee mug from flying across the room, or his head from exploding; but he knew that the instantaneous blare of Limpin Shark - or whatever the hell the name of that group was - was NOT how he had wanted to end his ambrosial solitude.

He gritted his teeth and grabbed at his temple, the dull pounding of his skull matching that of the song.

"Dude, you look rough." Hunter stood above him, hands on his hips as he bellowed down at Michael's unmoving form.

Michael could only glower. The riffs of heavy bass jarred the window, and Michael swore his coffee was rippling - but maybe that was just his head.

"Could you...please...turn that down?" he managed to croak.

Hunter looked nonplussed for a moment, then broke into a wide grin.

"Oh, that. My new way to start the morning. You like it?"

"No. I dislike it. Profusely."

"Dude, you need to broaden your horizons, branch out from that jazz and country shit you listen to."

"I do not listen to 'jazz and country shit'," Michael grumbled, turning away and pulling the afghan with him.

"Damn your grumpy in the morning. Just what is it then, 'cause that's what it sounds like to me."

"For your information, it's called _classic rock_. And if you don't turn that down, your brand new stereo is going to take a lesson in flying."

"Okay, okay. Chill. I read online that invigorating music is beneficial to the start of a productive day," Hunter replied smugly, backpedaling towards his room with an impish grin.

"The fuck it is."

The ear-splitting music abruptly ceased, and a relieved sigh escaped Michael's lips.

"Hey, you said not to use that word," Hunter called, peering around the corner as he pulled a sweatshirt over his head.

How come it was that children failed to hear what you wanted them to, but always heard that which you didn't?

"I said YOU couldn't use it. I never said I couldn't."

"I have to disagree. Parents are to teach by example." Ben emerged from their bedroom, never sparing a glance towards the lump on the couch as he rummaged around in the kitchen.

Michael rolled his eyeballs at Ben's self-righteous tone. "Good morning to you too," he growled, voice muffled against the back of the couch.

"What was that?"

"I said, I have to agree with you."

"Don't leave yet, I need to talk to you," Ben said before closing the bathroom door, his tone brittle and imperative.

"Does it look like I'm going anywhere soon?" Michael mumbled as he ran a hand through sleep mussed hair, carefully attempting to sit up. His effort was rewarded with a sharp stab of white hot pain across the back of his head.

"No school today," Hunter stated nonchalantly as he perused the contents of the fridge with a scrunched up nose. "Thought I'd go to the mall. That okay?"

"The mall? Is it even open at six o'clock in the morning?"

"Of course not, Einstein. Thought I'd get something to eat at the diner first, since there isn't a single edible thing in this joint. 'Sides, you and Ben need to hash out your connubial differences - maybe watch the Dr. Phil marathon together."

"Thanks, Hunter." And he meant it. Not the sarcastic advice - but that Hunter was willing to give them some much needed privacy, without Michael having to awkwardly ask for it. He didn't want the teen anywhere near when he and Ben said the things he knew would be said between them.

"No problem. Adiós, amigos."

Michael smiled fondly at Hunter's retreating back, then attempted to stand - and thought better of it. He figured if he maintained exactly the same position he was in, without moving a muscle, that his head just might not fall completely off his shoulders. Nor would the daggers, buried in his temples, twist themselves any deeper into his brain.

"Rough night?" Ben challenged, drying his hands with a towel - and talking entirely to loud.

His back still facing Ben, Michael groggily ran a hand down his face, deciding to just get it over with as he slowly climbed to his feet - with a considerable amount of assistance from the couch and coffee table - and finally stood on his own wobbly two feet. He lumbered his way into the kitchen, making a effort to keep his gaze anywhere but on the other man in the room.

"You could say that." He opened the fridge, unknowingly examining the contents with the same expression Hunter had accommodated, until he carefully bent to retrieve the orange juice carton.

"Mmm," Ben murmured with flippant disinterest, eliciting a sidelong stare of puzzlement from Michael as he lifted the carton - and drank straight from it.

"Michael..." Ben stared back at Michael with mild disbelief.

"What?"

"Nothing." Ben sighed as Michael continued to drink from the carton, looking every bit of sixteen.

"Hunter's school was canceled. Maybe you won't have to go in."

"I can't go in."

"Huh? A little snow never stopped you before."

"I'm not talking about that. I got a call last night. Do you remember Kurt Hanchett?"

"Yeah. Used to sub for you. You went through college together, right?" Michael remembered more than that.

Kurt Hanchett was positive.

"He died Saturday."

Michael was momentarily at a loss for words, and was suddenly very cold; clad only in flannel pajama pants and a wedding band.

"His funeral is today." Ben's voice was devoid of any perceptible emotion, and Michael was suddenly bombarded with a slew of unpleasant flashbacks featuring the weeks following the death of Ben's ex, Paul. A time and event he rather forget.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, feeling goosebumps rise along his skin, the ache in his temples sharpen. "I'll go with you."

"You have work."

"So? I just won't open the store today. From the looks of it outside, I don't think people are gonna be banging down the door."

There was no hesitation in his response. "No, really - it's okay. You don't have to go."

_You don't _want_ me to go, or I don't have to go? _

Michael paused for a moment, and seemed to be searching for the right words. He was not going to beg, not going to insist. Not this time.

"Okay then. Make sure you tell his family why I'm not there," he replied softly, giving Ben a meaningful glare as he passed him on his way to the bathroom.

"And why would that be?" There was more than a little mock sarcasm in the well-known voice.

Michael laughed - aloud. As if he didn't know.

"Because," he tossed over a retreating shoulder, "it's not my world."

* * *

Pillowy, flawless, and unobstructed by human footprints; the crisp blanket of snow was painfully beautiful. Literally. Michael was sure that had he forgotten his sunglasses, he'd be squinting like an eighty year old man and struggling to gain his bearings. Luckily - miraculously - he'd remembered to snatch them off the dresser before leaving the apartment, bundled up in about three days worth of clothing. That was the thing about wintertime - there was always more laundry. Hurrah.

Just as he unlocked the door to_ Red Cape _comics, flurries began to fall liberally, settling the vicinity into an eery silence and shadowing the blinding rays of the burgeoning sun. It had been like this for two days now; daybreak commencing with the promise of ample sunshine, only for ominous snow clouds to creep up like Border Collies on a flock of unsuspecting sheep, sweeping the Pitts with gusts of frigid wind and a caliginous screen of fat snowflakes.

Once inside, Michael released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Today was a good day to flip the sign over to closed, pile your arms chin-high with comic books, and hit the old bean bag.

But, truth be told, his store didn't bring the serenity it had always solicited in the past; but Michael chose not to examine that oddity too closely, preferring to be the proverbial ostrich, and bury his head in the sand.

Too many things had happened here. Too many memories.

There, behind the counter, is where he'd first laid captivated eyes on Ben. And over there, against the wall in front of the door, is where Brian had backed him, groped him, and left with a victorious grin and the knowledge of his 'secret identity' - of which the true meaning still eluded him, for Brian had always known Michael wanted him sexually, hadn't he? And finally, slumped against the wall over by the steps, is where they had ended it all with a handful of embittered words.

_It's not the end yet, dumbass - it's just the beginning. _

That prick of a little voice inside his head would just not shut up. Was it his angelic side, or his devilish side, he pondered with a remorseful shake of his head.

His phone vibrated against his thigh, prompting his heart to leap into his throat.

He peeked at the screen with guarded eyes, his heart falling back into place as he saw that it was Emmett.

"Hey, Em," the words rolling off his tongue as a weary sigh.

"Michael! I'm so glad I got you. You won't _believe_ who just called me."

"After the morning I've had, I'll believe anything."

"I just got off the phone with Brian."

Okay, maybe not anything.

"Brian?" he breathed, a thousand thoughts swarming his mind, clouding his ability to focus.

"Brian," Emmett confirmed, his words hurried, "at first I was pissed because he didn't call you, but Michael, he sounded so..._un-Brian_. I mean, he was still the same old cynical smart ass, but he sounded almost...sad. Which is kinda creepy."

Michael felt...something...flare within his heart. Could Brian possibly be feeling the same way he was feeling?

"Oh! And you won't be believe this either. He broke up with Justin."

Whatever the flare had been - it was now effectively doused.

"Actually, that's not so hard to believe."

Emmett didn't seem to notice Michael's dour tone. "He said he missed you...and that Hollywood wasn't all it was cracked up to be...and...oh! - he said to tell you that he'd see you soon, whatever that means - which with him could mean practically anything. He hung up before I could ask him. I just don't understand why he won't call you. In fact, he asked me not to tell you he called."

Michael snorted. "I'm not surprised. Being the quintessential asshole and all."

Michael didn't know how much of Emmett's recap to take with a grain of salt, how much to consider de facto, nor how much to just forget, if at all possible. It was much too early, much to cold, and his brain was much to debilitated for any of this to be remotely comprehensible. Emmett was prone to over-dramatize, though he'd like to think that for just this once - he wasn't.

"You ought to call him, Sweetie. You've always been the peacemaker of the duo."

Michael struggled to keep the acerbity from his tone. "A role I hereby relinquish. I'm sick of it. Sick of him and his stubborn pride," he said firmly, stabbing in the password to his email account.

"He asked how you were," Emmett ventured.

"Through the backdoor. I didn't do anything to him, yet he's the one afraid to call me. If he thinks for one second that I'm going to just...give him the easy way out, he's in for a rude awakening. I'm not his dutiful, unfailing, devoted little Mikey anymore."

"O-kay. It was just a suggestion," Emmett replied defensively, unnerved by how easily Michael's anger had been incited.

"Good. 'Cause I'm not doing it - I'm not saying a single word to him until he starts acting like the thirty-two year-old man he is and apologizes. Or least explains himself. "

"Good for you, honey. I think it's wonderful that you're standing up for yourself."

Michael laughed - with no mirth. "I've learnt the hard way that I'm the only one who can and will."

Emmett didn't know what exactly to say to such an uncharacteristic remark. "Well, I'm just the lowly messenger - but I did stand up for you. What exactly happened when - "

"I don't want to talk about it," Michael bluntly interrupted, knowing to what Emmett was referring.

Emmett instantly regretted the inadvertent slip. Of course Michael wouldn't want to talk about it. It dawned on him just how bad their argument must have been. He was almost immune to the various squabbles they sometimes - rarely - engaged in, for they never lasted longer than a day, if even minutes, and were invariably the type of quarrels that emanated from knowing someone better than yourself - like an old married couple (although Emmett doubted Brian would appreciate the description). But this - this was vastly different, and Emmett felt an acute rush of sympathy for the man on the other end of the line; and yes, even for Brian.

He remembered Michael's devastation at the apartment before his departure to Boston - and it seemed Michael was taking his advice, to a lesser extent.

Awkward silence transpired, and Emmett was inclined to change the current topic of discussion.

"Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. Teddy and I further discussed our idea last night, and came to a definite decision. We're really gonna do it, Michael. We're going to get married!"

Michael couldn't help but smile at the pure exuberance in Emmett's tone. "That's great Em. I'm really excited for you guys."

"I couldn't wait to tell you. We talked about how great it was that you and Ben tied the knot, and how more gay men should do the same - and then it came to us. Teddy's going to take his vacation time early, so we plan to leave within the week."

Michael chuckled. "So soon?"

"Well, we hope to be back before Christmas. We just can't wait. God, Michael...I never dreamed of myself getting married."

"That's the same thought that went through my mind when Ben popped the question." Michael paused, willing away the tightness in his chest."Look...I'm sorry I wasn't more enthusiastic about it last night, but I know you know I think it's wonderful, and something every committed gay couple should consider. I was just...having a bad night. Bad day, actually." _Bad two months. _

"Oh, hun - I completely understand. Don't you even think about it. But you did scare us last night. Feeling better this morning?"

"Yeah, I am," Michael fibbed, clenching his jaw. "After I regurgitated the entire contents of my stomach, I was good as new."

"Well, that's one way to learn not to binge drink," Emmett volunteered cheerily, attempting in his ever sensitive way to salvage a rather unpleasant event with light-heartedness.

"Thanks for calling and letting me know, Em. I gotta go and get some work done," Michael said, hoping his voice did not belie his distractedness as he eyed a familiar email address curiously.

"You're welcome, sweetie. I'll see you later."

"Bye." Michael hastily tossed the cell phone aside, and continued to stare at the email, slowly dragging the cursor over the heading as he worried at his bottom lip. He clicked, and began to read.

_Dear Michael, _

_You received my letter of confirmation in the mail yesterday, if my calculations were correct. But I wish to send you a personal note of congratulations from both myself and my crew. Welcome aboard, and my most heartfelt thanks for so graciously allowing us to film your brilliant creation. _

_You may start on the script anytime you wish, and for the moment, at any pace you desire. Once you have completed a rough draft, Justin and the art department will begin the preliminary storyboards. This process includes several additional details, of course, but we will discuss this more extensively via phone. _

_For now, congratulations; Rage is on it's way. _

_Yours Truly, _

_Brett Keller _

For the first time in two months, a genuine smile tugged at the corners of Michael's lips. He pulled his chair snug under the counter, clicked open Microsoft Word, and began to type.

He feared it might be the only way to keep himself sane.

* * *

"Stover called, Gehle left you a message, the airheads in the art department need a fire lit under their asses again..._and_..." Russ drawled, tapping a pencil on his chin as he skimmed through the pages on his clipboard.

"That 'and' better include a flight to Pittsburgh," said Brian churlishly, tilting his head back and popping two Tylenol's. He took a generous swallow from the styrofoam cup on his desk; grimaced, scooted it away with a finger, and regarded it disdainfully.

"Did something take a piss in that?"

"In what?" Russ said, looking up.

"THAT." Brian nodded toward the steaming cup.

"Oh," Russ said distantly, returning his attention to the clipboard. "Not that I'm aware of."

"Well, get me something that doesn't taste like wood tar and get THAT toxic shit off of my desk and out of my sight," he snarled, jerking open a drawer to his file cabinet.

Russ observed Brian from beneath lowered lids, finally raising his head and sliding the pencil behind his ear.

"Whatever's eating you must be suffering terribly."

"Unfortunately, nothing's eating me at the moment."

Russ shook his head softly at Brian's uncanny ability turn everything he said into a sexual innuendo.

"Did you hear anything I said?" He queried gently, watching as Brian thumbed through the folders with an agitated frown.

"Gehle the airhead left a message, the art department needs an ass again, and Stover lit a fire." Brian perused the contents of a folder with a customary air of bored indifference.

Russ allowed himself a small sigh, and walked across the glinting marble floor of Brian's office. The design reflected the abstruse ad man to a perfect tee - smooth, uninterrupted lines of polished chrome and stainless steel; modern, contemporary furnishings of minimal quantity, and strategically placed plants and knick-knacks that suggested an intelligent eye and impeccable taste. Sleek, refined, and eminently pleasing to the eye - integrally mirroring the man in control.

Russ perched himself atop the corner of Brian's desk, eyeing the crabby man below him expectantly.

"You also have a message from Justin Taylor." Russ tried to conceal his curiosity.

"He can wait," Brian grunted.

Russ smiled knowingly. "Of course. You can talk to him when you get home."

Brian's head snapped up, and icy hazel eyes pegged him with a glare that would melt lesser men where they stood.

"I'm not telling you again, Russell - it's NOT home, and if you refer to it as such again, I WILL make sure there is a significant deduction in your next paycheck. Understood?"

Russ saluted, unperturbed. "Yes sir, thank you sir."

"And Justin and I are no longer together."

Russ's face lit up. "Hey, congratulations!"

Brian did a double take, quirking a smooth brow.

Russ shook his head, but his smirk belied the flippant apology. "I mean, uh, sorry to hear that, Sir."

"Cut the 'sir' shit, would you?" Brian chucked his pen down irritably, lifting a hand to rub at his temple. "And why haven't you booked my goddamn flight?"

Russ cleared his throat. "Because there are a few details we need to discuss."

"Like what? The draperies?"

Russ ignored the sarcasm. "Kinnetic is still a relatively new company - a fledgling agency, if you will. And we both know that the newbie in town hardly gets special treatment; but is perhaps compared and contrasted with the larger companies even more aggressively than the established ones. Competition elimination."

Brian huffed. "Save your lecture for the actual lecture. You're not helping my headache."

Russ held up a finger. "Hear me out, Brian. I'm your biggest supporter - well, your only supporter - as far as flying back to the Pitts goes. And I'm not trying to play the bad guy here; I'm merely doing my job as your secretary...and your friend. So I think it's appropriate for me to remind you that if you decide to go back now, Kinnetic could fail."

"That's what interns are for."

"You know better than me that some fresh-faced kid isn't even close to a suitable replacement for a senior manager like you - not even for a short term basis. Planning, Brian, planning is the key. The graphics team - do you trust them with this new client, Gehle?"

Brian tugged at his lips, deep in thought.

Brian didn't have to speak for Russ to discern his answer. "Me neither. Brian....I've already talked to Gehle about your absence at the meeting, and he refuses to sign on unless he meets personally with you - and he's flying in the day you're wanting to leave for PA. These big wigs - they're paying for YOUR impressive resumé - not an intern. Your staff is very green. Hell, half of them still have to be told every fucking move to make."

Brian shook his head, his jaw set. "I have to go Russ. I can't be away from him for one more day."

Russ's sigh was patient. "I know Brian, I know. But you are going to lose not one, but two accounts if you leave tomorrow. That's a loss we can't afford to take. All I ask is that you wait. Wait until Stover and Gehle get here. Meet with them, sign the contract, set it in concrete. Then you can go."

Brian stared into space. "How far does that set me back?"

"One week exactly. Not a minute more."

Brian swiveled his chair, returning his attention to the file cabinet and avoiding eye contact. "I can't do it. I can't wait that long."

"Brian, the last agency I worked for - Blue Marvel Media. The senior ad man took two weeks worth vacation time. His agency was two months old. He went bankrupt because of it. I don't want to see that happen to you. You have FAR too much talent."

Brian's voice was strained, and Russ could almost see the inner struggle. "I've never chose my job over Mikey, and I'm not about to start now. I have this...nevermind."

"This...what?" Russ prompted in a gentle voice.

"I said nevermind," Brian snapped, burying his face in his hands with a weary sigh.

Russ realized he was about to tread on dangerous water, but he figured it was the only way. "The guy you just got off the phone with - "

"Emmett."

"Emmett. How'd he say Michael was doing?"

Brian snorted. "He wouldn't fucking tell me."

"This guy Michael's with now...the Buddhist. He takes care of him, right?"

Brian's voice was thoughtful and distant, qualities that were reflected in the depths of his eyes. "Yes."

"Then let him have Michael for one more week, and meet with these clients - secure the accounts, get the campaign going. But call Michael, and let him know that you're coming. Don't go back to Pittsburgh jobless, or worse, leave your agency behind in incapable hands. The failure of Kinnetic would hurt your resumé severely, Brian, and you may never be able to regain the ground you've gained in the last eight years of experience. The ad world isn't very forgiving. From what you've told me, Michael would want you to do he same. Don't take the chance of having to turn around and leave, only days after getting there, because of a crisis here that could have been avoided. I swear to you Brian - one week from today, and your ass will be on a plane headed for PA and Michael Charles Novotny."

Silence lingered for several moments, both men motionless and contemplative; waiting for the impending answer. Brian finally lifted his head, a weight shadowing the edges of his eyes that Russ didn't remember seeing before.

Brian stared intently at a picture enclosed within a seashell frame; and took a shaky breath.

"Okay."

* * *

_**THREE DAYS LATER**_

The apartment was still and shrouded in darkness, save for the splinter of pale moonlight that seeped through the small window across from the couch, creating a column of bleached fluorescence.

Michael gritted his teeth, closing the sqeaky door and toeing off his sneakers with agonizingly slow movements. A soundless sigh of relief escaped him when he accomplished both tasks without the barest hint of noise.

He thought it wise to strip right there at the door, the particular area being the farthest point from the two separate rooms which held what Michael hoped were deeply sleeping occupants. He considered simply leaving his clothes on; but the thought of sleeping in his jeans was not the most enticing.

Finally peeled down to nothing but black boxers, he tiptoed stealthily towards the couch, a corner of his lip caught between straight teeth in determined concentration - until his toe connected with something unmistakably solid and painfully unyielding. He froze, eyes clamping tight as a sharp hiss he really wish he'd been able to stem filled the deathly silence.

His big toe throbbing, Michael hobbled the remainder of the way to the couch, making a mental note to remind Hunter NOT to leave his ten pound, thick-assed biology book in the middle of the goddamn floor. To which, of course, the teen would probably retort with something along the lines of "how was I supposed to know some strange guy that looked like Michael would be sneaking around the living room at two AM in the morning" - and thus, effectively blowing his cover.

He tunneled down into the eminently uncomfortable indents of the couch cushions, reaching back an arm to blindly grab for the pile of blankets; but a hand stilled his wrist. He gasped loudly, his heart racing and body jerking as he looked up; and found himself stared down upon by a face obscured in shadow.

Ben's face.

A wave of relief flooded through him, exhaled in a startled gust of breath. "Jesus Christ Ben, are you trying to kill me? I didn't even see you."

Ben tightened his hold on Michael's wrist. "Obviously not." The two words were harsh, cold, tense. Almost without inflection.

"I'm sorry if I woke you," Michael whispered, a trickle of uneasiness quaking his voice as he studied what little he could discern of Ben's silhouetted, upside down face.

Ben moved from behind the couch to stand before Michael, twirling the captive wrist around with him. Michael fervently wished he could clearly examine Ben's expression - for anger, hurt, _something_ - but the darkness seemed to devour everything around him.

"Is that all you're sorry for?" Ben crooned, cold fingers absently stroking the pale skin over the veins of Michael's wrist. Michael stifled the urge to squirm.

Something was wrong. Dead wrong.

Michael's eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. "What do you mean?"

Ben angled a hip - obviously perturbed by Michael's response - and Michael saw that the larger man was naked save for his customary nighttime attire of white boxer briefs.

"Don't play dumb, Michael." Ben sniffed contemptuously. "I hope he was good."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Michael snapped, attempting to snatch his wrist away - but Ben held fast.

"Every night, Michael. You come in at the same time. You never come to bed. Don't try to fool me. You love being fucked. Looks like it's my turn now."

"You asshole! Is that what you think I'm doing?" Michael yelled, brown eyes widening with incredulity.

"Yes. It is. Unless you have a better way to explain it."

"I do. I've been at the store, working on the script for _Rage_. I wouldn't lie to you, Ben - I'm not cheating on you."

Ben's quick bark of laughter sent chills down Michael's spine. "Oh, but Michael - you've cheated on me the whole time we've been together."

"What the HELL is wrong with you?!" Michael snarled, moving to sit up, but a strong hand found the center of his chest, and pushed him back down none to gently.

Ben stepped into the ray of moonlight, and Michael gasped.

The cerulean eyes were bleak and cold - enflamed with a lurid gleam.

Michael's blood ran cold. He knew that look.

Steroids.

Ben saw the knowledge register on Michael's face, and his lips twisted in a feral grin. He lowered himself to lie flush with Michael's body, pinning suddenly limp wrists to the armrest above either side of the raven head.

Michael drew a deep breath, fighting for composure, his features slack with disbelief - and suddenly, he found it difficult to breathe, as if all oxygen had been siphoned from the room.

The glacial voice that broke the silence prompted him to flinch. A knife to his heart.

"You can be so innocently deceitful, Michael. Or maybe not so innocent. Maybe your not as naive as you would like everyone to think." Ben's face quirked into an angered sneer, as if a sudden thought had struck him.

"Brian." His eyes flashed with resentment. "Everytime you were ever with him, every time you uttered his name - you cheated on me. How many times, when we made love, was it his face that you saw? His cock that you felt?" Ben punctuated the words with a grind of his hips.

Michael shook his head, trying in vain to worm his body out from under the massive weight that pinned him.

"Don't do this, Ben. You're on steroids," Michael breathed, as if that explained everything - and it did - just not to the drug enraged man that writhed atop him.

Michael's mind fully acknowledged what was going on, but his body remained locked in disbelieving shock; paralyzed and numb. At first, he almost believed that he was suffering from some kind of bizarre optical illusion - but it was shattered the moment he glimpsed the steroid induced frenzy of Ben's gentle eyes.

Ben chuckled, as if greatly amused by Michael's bewilderment. "And?" He dipped his head, a warm, slick tongue running a wet line up the center of Michael's chest, pausing to lap at the hollow of Michael's throat.

"Ben...stop - right now. Why are you doing this?"

The tawny head lifted, a thoughtful gaze darting between Michael's parted lips and wounded eyes.

Michael cocked his head to side, staring deeply into what used to be familiar ocean blue orbs.

"Everytime, Ben? Is this how it's going to be? Everytime, when someone positive dies...are you going to pump your body up with that useless shit, and put me - US - through hell?"

Ben tightened his grip on Michael's wrists with bruising force. "You don't have the first idea what hell is, Michael." The grip tightened further still. Michael gasped, feeling the blood flow rapidly constricting.

"You never will. You'll never know what it's like to live your life knowing...dreading...that you could drop over dead from a fucking cold germ."

"Ben. Let go of my wrists," Michael panted, his voice dead calm, yet insistent.

Ben didn't seem to hear him. "You'll never know what it's like to live with the knowledge that death itself flows through your veins."

Michael growled through clenched teeth, jerking his arms with each emphasized word. "LET GO of my FUCKING wrists RIGHT NOW!!!"

Ben obliged with a frigid smirk - but only to run cold hands up the smooth length of Michael's forearms, across his shoulders, then up and down the muscled biceps with tender strokes. Without pretense, he encircled his hands around the sloped muscles, grasping with such force his fingers trembled.

Michael was forced to pause - to take a deep breath - and to call on every ounce of control he possessed to force down the urge to knee Ben in the groin. He bit the inside of his mouth, feeling the bruises forming, all the way down to the bone.

Almost as if reading his mind, Ben's thighs squeezed Michael's hips, holding him firmly in place.

"Michael, Michael," Ben admonished in a hushed tone, "there's nothing..." he kissed Michael's ear, "more sexy..." bit at his ear lobe, "then you when you're mad..." he dove in to kiss quivering lips, but Michael deftly turned his head, closing his eyes against what Ben had forced him to do; forced them to become.

He whipped his head back around, eyes black with fury. "Get the fuck off of me, you fucking drug addict."

Ben chuckled. "What are you going to do about it Michael? Are you gonna try and jab another needle in your vein?"

"No. I'm going to leave you."

Something in Ben snapped, and he drew back, blinking.

"The only reason I'm still here is sleeping in the room behind us. But you know what? I remembered something Brian once told me. He said, 'staying together for the sake of the children is a fucking poor excuse.' And he was right."

Ben ground his teeth so furiously that Michael saw the tremble of his jaw, heard the dull grate of his teeth. He could feel his own lips trembling, feel a hot tear snaking from the corner of his eye; elicited both from the pain of Ben's fists around his biceps, and from the pain of what had just been destroyed.

Their trust, their love, their commitment - everything that ever stood within them, now stood between them.

Michael glared at his husband with blatant defiance, grappling to apprehend the emotions in Ben's glazed eyes - but it was no use. The drug was in control.

Rage burned clear in eyes dark with passion, and Ben used all his considerable strength to hold Michael still as he ravaged his lips in a bruising kiss, their teeth clattering together, lips splitting and bleeding. Michael briefly struggled, then went completely still, allowing Ben's tongue to snake inside his mouth.

Then he bit down as hard as he could.

He absorbed Ben's muffled cry, tasting the metallic tinge of blood. Ben leapt back on his haunches as if burned, finally freeing Michael from his unrelenting grip. Finger shaped bruises dotted Michael's biceps, and dark, purple rings circled his slender wrists, the discolorations growing deeper with each passing minute.

Ben dabbed at his tongue with an index finger, his eyes widening when the finger drew back red with blood.

"Fuck! You bit me!"

Michael's voice was deadly calm. "Don't you fucking touch me ever again," he snarled, wiping at his swollen lips with the back of a hand.

The collective sound of their heavy breathing filled the apartment. Michael turned away, unable to look at what once owned his heart. A commitment - a love that had glowed so bright within him - now ruined and devastated.

Everything familiar and comfortable to him was nothing but ashes in the wind, eclipsing his heart with darkness and threatening to consume him.

And he knew, that whatever part of his heart had not yet been shattered - crumbled at that moment in time.

Eyes hollow and empty, he walked towards the bathroom, feeling his steps falter. He barely made it before emptying the contents of his stomach for the second time that week.

* * *

"So tell me - is it _really_ that uncool for one of your parents to pick you up?" Michael joked, giving the lanky teen beside him a sidelong grin.

Hunter shrugged. "Not really. Why? Didn't your mom ever pick you up?"

Michael dug his hands deeper into the warm, fleece pockets of his jacket. "No. She had to work, plus we didn't have a car for a quite a while. I always walked or rode the bus."

Hunter smiled slyly. "And I bet you sat in the back and made out with Brian."

An almost imperceptible wince jerked the muscles of Michael face, but he smiled thinly, staring down at the sidewalk.

"Sorry," Hunter mumbled, suddenly enthralled by the scuffs on his Nike's.

"No, it's okay. It just...hurts."

They continued to leisurely stroll through the park, shoulder to shoulder, an uncomfortable silence settling between them. Hunter thought the symbolism was very unbefitting, for life as of late was anything but a stroll in the park, though he admitted to himself that he was glad, if not surprised, that Michael had met him outside the highschool, asking him if he would like to 'just take a walk and go for a burger'.

But Hunter knew. He knew what was coming.

"Yeah. Kinda like...well...there's this girl I like. Her name's Shawna. I haven't ever tried to talk to her or anything, but the other day at lunch...I saw her kissing this guy. And it...y'know, made my chest feel all funny."

Michael arched an eyebrow, pinning him with a fond look. "You haven't told me any of this."

Hunter shrugged. "I'm telling you now. 'Sides, you've been busy."

Michael sped up and stepped in his path. "Hunter, I'm never too busy to talk to you. You do know that you can ask me anything, right? Talk to me about anything?"

Hunter merely nodded his head, worrying at his lower lip. Michael sighed, and laid a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder.

Michael tried to still the quaver of his voice - but he feared it would be with him for the duration of the conversation to come. "There's something I need to talk to you about. C'mon, lets sit down for a minute." He nodded towards one of the few empty benches. The park was full today; echoing with the giggles of playing children, the calls of parents, the whispers of lovers.

A freak current of unseasonably warm air had breezed throughout the Pitts, melting the pearlescant carpet of iciness and leaving in its wake ubiquitous thatches of lingering snow. Snow clouds still hung low, dabbing the sky like huge grey cotton balls. The forecast predicted two foot within the next couple of days, and the temperatures to dip below freezing.

Once seated, Michael turned to face Hunter, tucking one leg under the other and leaning against the back of the wooden park bench. Hunter stared straight ahead, watching a mother encourage her toddling son, and Michael could read dread in the slump of the teen's shoulders.

It didn't seem at all possible - but Michael felt his heart breaking. All over again, and more painfully than all the times before. He wanted to leap up and scream and run. To run and run until finally he was away from it all, and simply couldn't run anymore.

But he couldn't, and he wouldn't. He had Hunter's well-being to think about. He couldn't think about himself right now. The mothering instinct in him was too strong - and the guilt too potent.

Hunter finally had a family to call his own. Michael was about to rip it apart.

He took a deep, shaky breath, attempting to calm himself.

It didn't work.

Jesus. He needed a drink. He needed a joint.

He needed...

Michael didn't know if he could do this. He just wanted away. Far away.

He understood at least a little now, perhaps, how Brian may of felt. Although, Michael sure as hell wouldn't waste such feelings on a replaceable job and an ungrateful twink - the latter of which Michael wouldn't trust as far as he could spit cum.

For a reason he didn't want to analyze, the thought of Brian evoked an illusional image of his smiling face - and gave Michael a sudden rush of courage, a willfulness to be strong for the teenager that sat beside him; a child who had been through what no child should. He also wondered - in that place of the mind that is distant and involuntary - if maybe some very tiny part of it was because Hunter reminded him of Brian at that age. He didn't know. He wasn't sure of anything, except that he was still needed by the boy, so close to being a man, sitting beside him.

"Hunter, I don't exactly know how to tell you this - "

Hunter's head whipped around, and Michael felt a warm hand grip his knee.

"Then don't."

Michael didn't bother to conceal his confusion.

"Like your mother said about knowing you were gay - I'll spare you the pain of having to tell me. It's the least I can do, after all you've done for me."

Michael didn't care that tears were blurring his vision. He didn't care that there were people all around, enjoying the warm December day, laughter carrying on the wind.

Hunter held Michael's unblinking gaze. "I'll go with Ben."

Michael let out a heavy breath, forehead crinkling and his expression clearly seeking an explanation. "Hunter, you - "

"No, Michael. Ben needs me more than you do. And you...you need some time to yourself..." Hunter's eyes sparkled with knowledge, "...to find the other half of you. And for once I'm not talking about your tendency to lose things."

Michael made a comical face of feigned offense - and ignored one particular part of Hunter's statement.

The levity didn't last for long.

"But what about school? Your friends?"

Hunter smiled softly. "It's no big deal. Don't forget that when I was with that bitch of a mother, and later when I was hustling on my own, I was moving all the time. To keep the cops confused. It doesn't bother me."

"But " -

"I mean it, Michael. 'Sides, New York is right up my ally, don't ya think?"

Michael reached out to touch Hunter's cheek. "Definitely."

Hunter surprised them both by grasping Michael's fingers within his own.

"I just want you to know one thing. I'm not good at saying what I feel or think...but I think you're used to that. But I'm working on it, and I've learnt alot from you."

Hunter paused, and Michael could feel the slight tremble of the hand within his. Then, words seemed to stumble from the youth, as if he were afraid they would not be said if not in haste. "I want you to know that I'll miss you."

Michael felt something within him break - couldn't be his heart, it was already broken - and the tears rolled freely now, as he pulled Hunter into a firm hug.

His voice was muffled against Hunter's jacket. "I'll miss you, too. I'll call you all the time. You can come and visit me anytime you want. And remember how we were talking about college the other day? I'm paying for it. You just call."

Hunter drew back, and in his eyes, there was a glimmer of excitement lurking beneath the sadness. "_Rage_?" he breathed.

Michael nodded, smiling through his tears. "You can go to any college you want, so you better start looking. Almost less than a year now."

The teen looked down, fiddling with a stray thread on his jacket. "Thank you. I'll make you proud." The carefully ducked eyes shone with sincerity, and warmed corners of Michael's heart that weren't dark after all.

Michael lifted Hunter's chin, and pulled him back into a hug. "You already have, Hunter."

They embraced for several moments, and Michael wasn't sure, but he thought he heard a sniffle from somewhere over his shoulder.

"Michael?"

"Yes?"

The voice was very soft, very timid. "I always...I wondered...if I could call you dad."

Squeezing the trembling frame tighter, Michael felt a gentle breeze cool the hot tears that streamed down his cheeks, fog his breath as he breathed out the raw emotion choking his voice.

"Of course you can, son."

* * *

**_Author's Note :_** Hope everyone is having/had a great weekend. My thoughts go out to those of you in Florida - I have family in Daytona/Ft. Lauderdale, so I'm just a little worried. Anyhoo, I can hear the collective groan of "but I thought this was a Brian and Michael fic!!" I can't scream it enough...it is! IT IS! lol. I care too much about Hunter to just let his character fade away, and when Brian comes back, I want Michael unattached, so this chapter was completely necessary if my plot is gonna work, so don't think I've forgotten our boys...the best chapters are yet to come, believe me. Now that Hunter and Ben are out of way, (that sounds cruel, doesn't it? lol) the fun will really start to begin. As for what I did to Ben in this chapter, I hope no one thinks it was terribly OCC, because it was all 'roid rage, folks. I've seen what that crap does to people first hand, and I've always wanted to expand on that particular storyline. I also needed something to push Michael over the edge - because I really think he would stay as long as possible, for Hunter. And I don't like the idea of Ben leaving him - Ben was reallly an ass to him this season, and IMO Michael should have given him the boot about three times already, so this is like my little fantasy coming alive. lol. Anyway, thanks for reading! 


	9. Chapter Nine

**Author:** Samantha (Sam)  
**Feedback:** I greatly appreciate feedback.  
**Pairing:** B/M, of course, with initial B/J, Be/M overtones. T/E  
**Rating:** R  
**Genre:** Angst, Romance, WIP  
**Summary:** Michael has some news for Brian. Brian can't cope, and pushes Michael - and himself - too far.  
**Special Thanks:** To everyone who has sent, and continues to send, such lovely feedback, on and off-list.  
**Spoilers:** Through Season 4  
**Warnings:** AU (which constitutes only the plot - NOT the characters), WIP. And, er, its rather angsty. However, I promise when I say it has a very happy ending.  
**Disclaimer:** I'm just playing in Cowlip's sandbox. No profit is generated from this. QAF and Brian/Michael are not mine. But oh, if they were...evil grin  
  
**Author Note :** Another pretty dark chapter. Sorry! I'm such the angst-ho. Also, there is mention of Michael/OMC in this part, so if you don't like that, then be warned.

* * *

So I look in your direction,  
But you pay me no attention, do you.  
I know you don't listen to me.  
'cause you say you see straight through me, don't you.  
  
On and on from the moment I wake,  
To the moment I sleep,  
I'll be there by your side,  
Just you try and stop me,  
I'll be waiting in line,  
Just to see if you care.  
  
Did you want me to change?  
Well I change for good.  
And I want you to know.  
That you'll always get your way,  
I wanted to say,  
  
Don't you shiver  
  
I'll always be waiting for you,  
So you know how much I need ya,  
But you never even see me, do you?  
  
And this is my final chance of getting you.  
  
And it's you I see, but you don't see me.  
And it's you I hear, so loud and clear.  
  
And you know how much I need you,  
But you never even seen me.  
  
-- Shiver -- by Coldplay

* * *

**BE MY DOWNFALL  
  
Chapter Nine**  
  
_...You can be so innocently deceitful, Michael....  
  
...You'll never know what's it's like, to live, knowing...  
  
...death itself flows through your veins...  
  
The words rolled deliberately from the curled lips hovering ominously over his own. He couldn't get up, he couldn't breath; he could do nothing but listen to the words and believe the stinging truth they held.  
  
...Brian. It's always been him, hasn't it?....  
  
Before Michael knew what he was doing, what was happening, a red haze crossed his vision. Now he couldn't see, he couldn't think. Why would anyone say Brian's name with contempt? The weight of the body molding his was crushing, and there was a strange pressure on his arms. He couldn't feel them. Couldn't feel anything. Except anger, fear, betrayal. What had he done?  
  
A sudden, bruising kiss sent ice through his veins. He tried to move. He couldn't move. He didn't want this, not from the man who had whispered between gentle carresses that he would never hurt him.  
  
An insistent tongue grappled with his own. It was so familiar, yet so completely foreign. He had to stop this. But something or someone had numbed his entire body.  
  
He felt hard muscles move against him. The red haze morphed to black. He bit down on the tongue, and the wet muscle instantly retreated. He felt and tasted the pool of blood left behind on the curve of his own tongue. His body seemed to thaw, and he leaned over the side of couch, spitting a red splatter on the white rug below.  
  
The indignant form looming beside him did not realize what had just happened. Neither did he; until he began to walk away, feeling his legs give out as he told the man he didn't know anymore to never touch him again.  
  
"Now you'll know Michael, and maybe you'll care."  
  
Something stole the breath from his lungs like a blow to the stomach. Each word hit him with physical force.  
  
"Now you'll know Michael, and maybe you'll care." The voice repeated itself, over and over, until the echoes overlapped each other like angry waves.  
  
And then he was falling, but an arm reached for him, screaming his name with desperation, and the outstretched fingers shook with fear. He smiled when he saw the white of cowry shells, but he couldn't find the strength to raise his arm. He wanted to touch the fingertips so badly, to grab hold of them like he had so many times before.  
  
But he was already descending. _

* * *

Michael woke with a violent start, his sluggish muscles protesting. A choked sob threatened to burst from his throat, but he raised a hand to his drenched face and clamped it over his mouth. Only then did he realize that the entire bed was damp, as if someone had brought in the garden hose and misted down the sheets. Trembling with labored breaths, he fought to regain any shred of control he could grasp.  
  
He didn't have to consult a mirror to know he looked like he'd just stepped out of a pool. His skin was slick with a sheen of perspiration, and the tips of raven strands dripped with moisture. He brushed the hair from his eyes, feeling muscles drawn way too tight begin to relax and unravel as his body acknowledged that it had all been a dream. No - a nightmare. Dreams left behind pleasant sensations of tingling warmth; submersed you in mellifluous slumber.  
  
Which ensured that this was no dream.  
  
It was very real.  
  
He'd soaked the sheets through with profuse amounts of sweat before, namely the first time Ben had taken up steroids, and nightmares had consumed Michael's sleep; but he couldn't seem to convince himself that this time, it didn't mean anything. It could. It might. The abstractions of the mind were too powerful; the instant replay of scenarios conjured up in his imagination too intrinsic.  
  
Still encumbered by sleep, his hand impulsively reached for the cell phone lying quietly atop the nightstand - but he stilled his hand. It would be so very easy to punch in the unfamiliar number, so soothing to hear the smooth voice he loved and longed for speak his name...  
  
He had went to the clinic yesterday to be tested. Alone. No one knew - and no one was ever going to know. What was he supposed to say? _Guys, Ben was having a bout a roid rage, and forced a kiss on me, so I did the dumbest thing I could have possibly done and bit him.  
  
_The doctor's words of empty encouragement sting rang in his ears like a raspy, worn out record. _The mouth is an inhospitable environment for HIV, meaning the risk of HIV transmission through the throat, gums, and oral membranes is lower than through vaginal or anal membranes. You didn't swallow any of the blood? Good. Do you have any open cuts or sores in your mouth? Lets take a look._  
  
He felt like laughing away the ludicrousness of it all, but restrained himself. The walls of his childhood home were so damn thin, and the last thing he needed was his mother bitching about him keeping her up.  
  
He pulled the tangled sheets completely free of his body, feeling cold air seep down to his very bones.  
  
Hiding everything was the hard part. Thank God it was winter, so he had no excuse to make for wearing long-sleeved shirts. The bruises on his wrist were a little harder to hide, but a little easier to explain. His watch did a bang up job of covering the band of faded yellow encircling his left wrist. The other hand, he kept in his pocket or simply told those who enquired he had dropped something on it or had caught it in the screen door or had clumsily slammed it shut in a car door. Ben had obviously squeezed harder on his right hand, and of course, it just had to be the hand he used the most, the hand that was splotched with black, like someone had taken a sponge soaked with black ink and dabbed at his wrist. Which, of course, he'd used that excuse already - it was ink and wouldn't come off. He knew that his friends would never buy such a lame excuse, and he was again fortunate they were in Boston. They weren't around to watch his every unpredictable move, questioning him on his sudden break-up with Ben, confused by his erratic moods. They weren't there to tell him not to drink to much, to make amends with his mother, or to wonder why he was already dancing and kissing strange men, and not a crying mess locked away in a dark room.  
  
When it finally became too much to look at the one bruise he couldn't seem to hide, too much to relive the memory it evoked; he'd gone to the mall and invested in a leather wrist cuff. It screamed 'punk rock' and was anything but his style, but he liked it. He debated on whether or not to buy a matching companion for his other wrist. Probably. Wearing just one looked kind of funny. He might do that today, he considered. Indulge in a little shopping. Take his mind off things.  
  
He hugged a pillow to his chest. The same pillows that had sat on his bed when he was fourteen. A smile tugged the corners of his lips from the thought of how his mother kept everything - every picture he ever painted, every note he ever wrote her, every single craft he'd ever made in kindergarten with his wobbly little six-year-old hands and brought home to her with a proud smile. She would hug him and kiss him and tell him how much she loved it, then she'd pin it on the fridge or set it on the mantle; and he had loved to make her so happy with little things, had loved to see her smile.  
  
Which caused him to adopt a new perspective on the current situation between them. No matter what she had done to manipulate his life in selfish inconsideration, he could not continue to ignore her, could not keep refusing to speak to her or return her calls. Not when...and not if...  
  
He rolled over onto his stomach, facing the window and squeezing the pillow a little tighter. Amazing that the damn thing was still soft, though a bit smushed and flat. Brian had probably slept on the same one he was clutching. He breathed in deeply, imagining he could smell the spicy scent of his best friend, but all he got was a nose full of mustiness and lingering fabric softener.  
  
His mind drifted.  
  
_What is he doing right now?_  
  
Michael almost laughed again - a better alternative to crying - from the memory of halting the exploring touches, the bites, and the searing, tongue filled kisses between them in Babylon's bathroom - all because of Ben. If he could go back, he never would have allowed his better judgment to kick in, and let Brian - begged Brian - to fuck him into oblivion against the cold steel door. But that was flawed logic. He had been in love with Ben at that time, respected him and committed to him.  
  
Why did he always have to _think_ so much? To care so much?  
  
He had hurt Brian that night; more deeply than he would probably ever know. He realized that now, but he also knew that Brian had hurt him just as deeply. He silently wondered how it could be that the people you love the most hold the potential to hurt you the most. How could it be that the person held closest to your heart could be the one to hover over the trigger of your downfall? Funny how the notion of death could cause a person to see things, to think of things, that they never gave thought to before.  
  
He'd never felt so torn about Brian in his life. He wanted to scream and yell at him, he wanted to hold him tight, he wanted to tell him what an asshole he was, and he wanted to kiss him senseless and beg him to never leave him again - all at the same time.  
  
Maybe he was finally going insane, but one thought beat within him as steady as his heart.  
  
_I'm so sorry Brian. I love you._  
  
He wished the silent plea of his heart could carry across all the long, lonely miles and straight to Brian's heart. He wished an answer could be sent back.  
  
He wished...for the tranquility of sleep, and sleep took him, the whisper of Brian's name on his mind and lips. He knew it was only the tendril of a dream when he heard a murmured reply.  
  
_I love you Michael._

* * *

_The view was breathtaking and beautiful.  
  
A hot wind teased through the spikes of his hair like loving fingers, ghosted over his parched lips. Michael smiled, closing his eyes as a hot breeze kissed his eyelids and whispered in his ear. He could almost pretend it was someone; if only arms were around him, holding him tight. He felt invincible and acted on the sensation, spread eagling his arms and legs, as if offering himself as a sacrifice to the magnitude of his surroundings.  
  
He opened his eyes and looked down his nose to the empty chasm below, at the copper colored rocks, rich in the bright sunlight and jutting out irregularly. His foot nudged the edge of the precipice, sending pebbles and dust tumbling out into nothingness. It would be so easy; to fly, to fall....  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
An arm, strong and sinewy, warm and possessive, encircled his waist, long fingers splaying over his stomach. The other arm bracketed Michael's shoulder and collar bone, pulling him flush against the front of a body he instinctively knew the identity of. Michael lowered his arms, laying his hands atop those of his companion and stroking the knuckles softly.  
  
Michael ignored the question. "Isn't it beautiful? I've seen pictures, but this...this is the real thing."  
  
"Breathtaking. The real thing always is." A strong jaw dipped and molded into the neck of the smaller man in his arms. Lips rested against the soft skin behind Michael's ear.  
  
Michael turned to gaze into pools of hazel. "But how do we know the difference between those things that are real and those that aren't?"  
  
Brian pressed a lingering kiss to Michael's mouth, neither closing their eyes. "That's how," he whispered against Michael's lips.  
  
Michael's fingers found the back of Brian's head and combed through silky strands. "It's too good to be real. Too perfect."  
  
"Then why are we afraid of it?"  
  
"Because is has the power to destroy."  
  
"Only if we let it."  
  
"We don't have control over everything, Brian."  
  
"But we have each other. You have my heart, and I have yours. How can we not be safe?" Foreheads found each other and breaths were shared.  
  
"You left me."  
  
"So did you, Michael. You gave your heart to another."  
  
"Do you want my heart?"  
  
"I already have it. That's why it hurts."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I never really left you."  
  
"I know. Neither did I."  
  
Michael rested his head on Brian's shoulder. A hand rubbed slow circles over his back. "I don't want to feel anymore."  
  
"Why? The query was shrill with alarm and confusion.  
  
"Because you were right. You only get hurt in the end."  
  
"No, Michael. I was wrong. You learn in the end, and you become stronger. You come to realize what means the most to you."  
  
"I want to believe that. I can't anymore."  
  
"Yes, you can. You taught it to me."  
  
"Then why?"  
  
Brian kissed the top of Michael's head. "Why what?"  
  
"Why did he do it?"  
  
"Who, Michael? You have to tell me."  
  
"I...I can't."  
  
"You can. We don't keep secrets from each other, remember?"  
  
Michael used the hand still twined in Brian's to push himself away, their arms stretched between them as he walked backwards.  
  
"I told you, I don't want to feel anymore."  
  
"Michael, stop."  
  
Michael backed until he could feel himself encroaching the rocky ledge, then turned to stare out at the picturesque mountains, lifting a hand back towards Brian without looking.  
  
"C'mon, Brian. Just one step is all it would take, and I wouldn't have to know."  
  
"Mikey! Get back. Right now."  
  
But Michael wasn't listening. He was listening to the echo of an all too familiar voice, reverberating throughout towering walls of solid rock and soil. "Now you'll know Michael, and maybe you'll care."  
  
The words numbed something deep within him, and the sensation of falling threatened to overtake him, but someone tackled him from behind. He landed on his back, the fall cushioned by the give of a body beneath his. He tried to crawl towards the lip of the rocky edge, towards the infinite chasm that offered freedom, but hands held him strong and tight.  
  
"Goddammit Michael, if you destroy yourself, you destroy me. I'm not letting you go."  
  
Michael squeezed his eyes shut and pushed against the warm body holding him down. "Don't you see?! I can't stop it, Brian. I have no choice! I don't want to destroy you!"  
  
"Then stop! Don't do this! I can't live without you. Please Michael, don't do this! Don't be like me!"  
  
The mountainous canyon was suddenly filled with fog. Black clouds filled half the sky above them, contrasting sharply with the vivid emptiness of the remaining portion. The crystalline tableau of the purest shades of blue, green, and white was no longer visible, clouded by a murky haze. The perfection was shattered.  
  
"I don't want to be like him. I don't want to know!"  
  
Michael opened his eyes, and no longer did the body holding him belong to Brian. Cold eyes of ocean blue stared back at him, and he jerked his arms away, anticipating a bruising touch. He scrambled backwards, unable to tear his eyes away from the smiling features of his husband. Ex-husband. The word was foreign and flared within him a trickle of shame, though he knew it should not.  
  
He backed and backed, unaware of how close he had come to the edge until gravity abandoned him, and frigid water engulfed him. A hand dove beneath the surface, reaching for him, but there were no cowry shells laced around the wrist, and he could not recognize to who the flailing fingertips belonged. Ben, or Brian?  
  
When he finally had an answer, it was too late.  
  
He couldn't breathe. _

* * *

Michael awoke to the savory sweet smell of baking muffins.  
  
For a moment, he wasn't quite sure where he was. Bleary eyes swept surroundings that were familiar, yet not familiar - from the hideous wallpaper, the faded Captain Astro curtains, to the cluster of small photographs tacked to a slab of cork board - the setting was recognizable and comforting, but it was not right.  
  
Everything can back to him at once. Ben. Steroids. Blood. New York. California. An empty apartment. An empty loft.  
  
Emptiness.  
  
He didn't know whether it was exhaustion or pure luck, but after the third nightmare, sleep came deeply and soundly and without unwelcome interruption, until his internal alarm clock signaled the start of a new day, which was equally unwelcome.  
  
He rubbed at eyes grainy and itchy from too little sleep and too much crying, and swung his legs over the side of the tiny bed. He almost headed straight for the bathroom, but remembered he was more than half naked, and more importantly, in his mother's house.  
  
Once beneath the steamy rush of hot water, the subfusc voices and images from his dreams recapitulated in his mind. Why did Ben keep saying that to him in the dream? He had not said it that night, and Michael knew he would never do or say something of that nature, and certainly not with such cruel intent - not even under the intransigent pull of steroids.  
  
With a twist of his wrist, he turned the shower nozzle all the way over to cold, flinching when the awkward turn sent a sharp pang splintering up his forearm. He ignored it and let water cascade over his face, the cold bite tightening his pores and lavishing skin sticky from sweat.  
  
Michael cursed under his breath, remembering that everything, save but a few changes of clothes, was still in the apartment. Which of course included his shampoo. He picked a random bottle off the shelf, rolling his eyeballs at the corny name. "Fruity Fusion Passion Berry Peach Blast." Couldn't it just say berry scented shampoo? He snapped open the cap, sniffing at the pink, syrupy liquid with a scrunched up nose. _Smells like a fucking fruit pie._  
  
Trying - without success - to block out the sickening sweet smell of the thick, pink suds that slithered down his face; he scrubbed at his scalp, feeling the last vestiges of sleep diffuse with each icy spray. It didn't smell THAT bad, he admitted, but he rather not walk around smelling like a flower all day.  
  
He finished up in the bathroom, and returned to his old room, toweling jet hair that was just long enough to curl over his forehead. He slipped on a pair of dark blast jeans, (quite a bit tighter then usual - another thing he had invested in, along with the wrist cuff) pulled on a snug, black shirt with sleeves that ended just below the elbows, and toed into his shoes without using his hands, an old habit that usually sent him hopping around the room.  
  
As he fastened his wrist cuff, he walked slowly around his childhood room, smiling as each picture, each old toy, action figure, stuffed animal and knick-knack brought back a vivid memory.  
  
The slow survey and nostalgic smile faded when his toes bumped against the wood chest standing at the end of his bed.  
  
And he remembered. He remembered what lay in the bottom, untouched for nearly a year, but never forgotten, the meaning never dulled nor buried beneath the progress of time and separate lives.  
  
His knees seemed to bend and kneel upon the frayed carpet by their own accord, his butt resting lightly on the heels of his tennis shoes. He watched as his fingers unclasped the locks on either end of the curved lid, popping open with a soft clink. He pushed gently through years of memories, accumulated junk, and things so sentimental and irreplaceable that he was sure Brian would compare him to a pack rat crossed with a lesbian. His questing fingers finally found the bottom of the chest, and a thin thread of leather slipped between them. He tugged gently, and a necklace lifted from the confines of the chest. At the end of the leather, a smooth river stone of deepest turquoise dangled and swayed in front of his eyes.  
  
Michael held the cool, flat stone within the palm of his hand, tenderly tracing the faint flecks of ivory and beige with the tip of his pinky, and turning the stone over, he traced the carved outline of six smoothly embedded letters.  
  
He remembered. His chest tightened and he closed his eyes against the sting.  
  
Nearly a year ago, when his relationship with Ben had turned serious; he had quit wearing it, placing it safely in the bottom of his keepsake chest. If Brian had noticed it's absence around Michael's neck - or had cared - he hadn't made it apparent.  
  
Michael slipped the braided, black leather cords around his neck, and with deft fingers, tied the ends together for a neat, sturdy knot; just like he had so many times before. He tucked the irregular shape of the stone safely beneath his shirt, drawing comfort from the cold press against his sternum.  
  
Michael closed the chest, and walked from the room.  
  
"Good morning, Ma."  
  
Bent over the open oven door, Debbie regarded her son - casually leaning against the wall, easy smile in place - with an open mouth. How long had it been since that beautiful smile had been directed at her?  
Since he had greeted her with such simple, yet cherished words?  
  
"Michael....?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"...Nothing...I just...I thought you weren't talking to me."  
  
Michael smiled softly. "We have alot of things to talk about, Ma. Alot of things you need to say, if I'm going to keep talking to you."  
  
Debbie stared at him unblinkingly, feeling the waves of dry oven heat flush her cheeks.  
  
"Um, Ma...your muffins are burning."  
  
"Oh! Shit." She pulled out a pan of a puffy, golden brown muffins, topped with peaks of crispy black. She set she the pan on the counter with a soft plop, and tossed her oven mitt aside. "Yeah, I uh...I made you breakfast."  
  
"Smells good, but I'm not hungry."  
  
"Nonsense. They're your favorite, chocolate chip. Growing boys need their breakfast."  
  
"I think I quit growing a long time ago and I think I said I wasn't hungry," Michael firmly replied, stepping across the kitchen to slip into a chair.  
  
Debbie's smile was one of relief and affection as she laid a hand on Michael's cool cheek. She didn't care what he was saying or how he said it - all that mattered was that he was actually talking to her. "I know, it's just...sometimes easy to forget that you're not my little boy anymore. Some mornings I can almost hear you, bounding down the stairs like an elephant, babbling non-stop about your plans for the day. It's nice to have you here again."  
  
Michael smiled patiently, but Christ, he hadn't intended for her to get all teary-eyed. "Thanks Ma. I appreciate you letting me stay with you, and I was wondering if I could stay for a few more days."  
  
Debbie sat down across from Michael and laid her hand atop his. "Sweetheart, whatever happened between you and Ben, it's not too late - "  
  
"Ma - please. Listen to me. It's over."  
  
Debbie frowned, apparently waiting for a more thorough explanation. Michael sighed and ran a hand through his hair.  
  
"Maybe one day, I'll be able to tell you what happened. But not right now. If you have any respect for me, then just let it be. Don't make this more difficult that it needs to be. I know you love both Ben and Hunter, and I know you want me to be happy. I love them too, Ma, more than you'll ever know. But I wasn't happy."  
  
Deb's eyes glistened. "But you were both so happy. You got married, and you, you - "  
  
Michael held up a hand. Fuck - he didn't need this right now.  
  
"We were happy, Ma. But it didn't last. Things happen...and people change. I need you to understand that. Ben and I are finished. There is no going back."  
  
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart."  
  
Michael nodded, waiting for the anvil to drop, but his mother pleasantly surprised him - for a change - and continued in a humble, albeit shaky tone.  
  
"When you wouldn't talk to me, I realized what I'd done. And I realized that I need my son. I know that I've...said some things, and done some things..."  
  
Michael's eyes widened in unmitigated agreement and he nodded his head.  
  
"...I shouldn't have done. But please believe me - all I've ever wanted is for you to be happy. And I thought that I could make it happen the way I saw best, and I know I've hurt you with my thoughtlessness. I wanted to shield you from the world, from getting your heart broken; but Vic was right. I can't keep you away from those things, I can only guide you the best I can, and be there for you when you need me; but I haven't been there for you, not like I should. When you wouldn't talk to me, Michael...I was so fuckin' scared that I'd finally went to far...that I'd pushed that forgiving heart of your's too far."  
  
Debbie dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a nearby dishtowel. Michael leaned across the table and enveloped her in a hug.  
  
"It's okay, Ma. It's okay."  
  
"No, it's not okay. I can't help but feel like this is all my fault."  
  
"It's no one's fault. Okay?"  
  
"It's somebody's fault, dammit."  
  
_Yeah. Ben's._ "If you even hint that any of this is my fault - "  
  
"No, no, of course not, sweetheart. It's just...you two were so perfect and happy together - "  
  
Michael felt like screaming. "_Were_, Ma, were is the keyword here. And please lets drop the subject."  
  
Debbie complied reluctantly, and hugged Michael again. He heard a sniff over his shoulder.  
  
"Is that...my shampoo?"  
  
"Well, it certainly isn't mine. I had to use yours."  
  
She pinched his cheek. "Aw, you smell like a peach!"  
  
Michael rolled his eyes. "I know, Ma. Please don't remind me."  
  
Silence ensued, and Michael didn't know which unnerved him more: his mother's adoring gaze, or the ease of her repentance.  
  
Maybe the silent treatment worked after all.  
  
Nevertheless, and whatever the reason, he was glad; because if she had engaged in her usual 'what did you do, fix it now' rant, Michael was prepared to walk out the door and never come back. And he honestly didn't want that to happen. Too many people had left his life already.  
  
Debbie's voice was very small when she finally spoke. "What are you going to do now?"  
  
Fucking hell, Michael thought, that was a loaded question if he ever heard one.  
  
"Ben's out of the apartment, but I don't want to go back. Not yet. I'll just hang here for a few days, if that's okay with you."  
  
"More than okay. Since your Uncle Vic moved out, this old house has gotten so damn lonely."  
  
"Well, I didn't say I'd watch QVC with you or sit through Bette Davis."  
  
"Sit through? Are you saying she's unbearable?"  
  
"Nevermind. Do you have an extra key?"  
  
Debbie stared at him bemusedly.  
  
"For the front door. I don't want to wake you up."  
  
"Oh, don't worry about that. I go to bed at a godawful hour."  
  
"Ma, really, I think its best if I have my own key. I might come in really late."  
  
Debbie arched a faint eyebrow. "And just why will you be coming in late?"  
  
Michael didn't think an answer was necessary. "I can always find somewhere else to stay. Somewhere that doesn't require a curfew and debriefing."  
  
"Sorry. There I go again. I just don't like you out late at night by yourself."  
  
"I won't be by myself. Babylon is full of people."  
  
"Babylon?! What the hell are you going there for?"  
  
"I happen to go there alot."  
  
"Yeah, but..."  
  
"But?"  
  
"But Emmett and Ted aren't here, and neither is Brian. What the fuck are you gonna do?"  
  
_You mean _who "I seem to recall a lovely little speech about someone realizing I wasn't a little boy anymore?"  
  
"I still worry about you."  
  
"Jesus Ma, I'm thirty-two years old."  
  
Debbie smiled and ruffled his neat spikes. "But you look sixteen."  
  
"Thanks. I'll be sure to take my forged identification," he drawled.  
  
"Promise me you'll be careful."  
  
Michael's heart lurched. It would break her, break her fragile heart, to know that he might...  
  
"I promise. Your turn to make a promise."  
  
Debbie's eyes narrowed in confusion, and magenta lips pursed; but Michael could tell she was waiting and listening.  
  
"No more meddling in my life."  
  
"Michael Charles! I do not meddle!"  
  
Michael propped his elbow on the table and rested his forehead in his palm.  
  
"Don't start, Ma. You can make this easy, or you can make it very, very difficult. And I'm not going to tolerate difficult."  
  
"But..._meddling_? I don't do that!"  
  
"If my fifth grade vocabulary serves me right, I believe the word meddle is defined along the lines of 'to intrude into other people's affairs or business'. And that means my relationship with any man - any human being for that matter - as well as what I do with my life. I want your advice, and I want your wisdom - but I don't want your interference."  
  
Something within Debbie seemed to melt and wither, and she nodded her head. "Okay. I promise not to meddle - even if Brian tries to screw up your life."  
  
"Wow, Ma - that lasted for about one second."  
  
"What?!"  
  
"Jesus, do I need to write up a contract complete with fine print? Enough with the derogatory Brian comments. If he screws with my life - which he doesn't - then it is nobody's fault but my own for letting him. I'm not fourteen. I can make my own choices."  
  
"But after what he did..."  
  
"He didn't do anything." Michael's eyes narrowed, suspicion flitting across his face. "I thought you wanted him to go?"  
  
Uncomfortable with the turn of discussion, Debbie rose and dabbled around in the kitchen.  
  
"You want a muffin? They're still warm."  
  
"Not, I don't want a muffin. What I want is for you to answer my question."  
  
Debbie stood perfectly still, her back facing Michael as she stared down at the sink. Her proud shoulders slumped as she succumbed to an unseen force. The silent surrender was almost palpable.  
  
"He loves you."  
  
Michael swallowed, and suddenly, all he could see were beloved hazel eyes. "I know he does."  
  
"No, Michael. He **loves** you." She sighed, and began swiping at the counter with a damp dishcloth. "A mother can tell when a man is in love with her son."  
  
It was Michael's turn to be stricken speechless. He wondered for a moment, if he had underestimated the obstreperous woman before him.  
  
"But he wasn't a man when I first realized. He was a boy. A beautiful boy, with a rebellious spirit and a brick wall surrounding his heart, and a fucking irresistible, magnetic pull that I knew had you trapped from the very first day you said his name, your face all bright and your eyes glowing from that precious touch of first love." Debbie laughed very softly, and Michael knew she was lost in reminisces. "But that wasn't what scared me. It was when I looked in his eyes...and saw the same thing. Everytime he looked at you, touched you, a tiny piece of that brick wall came down, and a part of you went in its place. And I thought to myself, what's gonna happen when there is no more brick wall? Will he love you like you deserve, or will he have his way with you, fuck it all up royally, and break your heart beyond repair? He will always have all of you within him, but will you have all of him? I didn't know the answer, and I still don't. You may trust him with your life, Michael, but I don't. I have a hard time trusting anyone with my son."  
  
She turned, and seated herself once again in the chair across from Michael, placing her ringed fingers atop his, covering the gold wedding band. A subtle weariness pronounced the lines of her face.  
  
"But I knew, that whichever one it may be, I would eventually lose you to him. Whether in the good sense of the word, or the bad sense. And you know me...I can't let go of a fucking ceramic angel, much less my own son."  
  
"If you thought you knew...then why...why did you always tell me I could never be enough for him? That he could never love me like I wanted?"  
  
"It's complicated."  
  
"I want to know. Even if I don't agree - and I have a feeling I won't."  
  
"It's meddlesome."  
  
"_Now_ you want to apply that rule? Past instances of meddlesomeness don't count." Michael offered a tiny smile, and got one in return.  
  
Debbie sighed very deeply, her gaze locked on their joined hands. "You are a beautiful man. Brian is a beautiful man. And of course, there is a tension and mutual attraction between you. And sometimes, people can't always hold back their feelings. I used stay awake at night while you and him were out dancing at Babylon, and I worried my tail off that the two of you would lose control, and there would be no going back. Brian wasn't ready. You weren't ready. It could be the end of your friendship, I realized, if you slept with each other before you were ready, before you were able to give each other what you need. So I thought... " Debbie looked away. Glimmers of shame and remorse shadowed her eyes.  
  
"..Yes? Thought what?"  
  
"I thought that maybe if I planted the thought in your head that Brian could never love you or want you, it would stop you before you both crossed that line. Because God knows, Brian thinks with his dick, but you...you think with your heart. I didn't want to be the once trying to convince you that he was in love with you. I waited for him to do it, to finally confess, but time wore on. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty...he didn't tell you, and he didn't change. I began to think that maybe I had been wrong, until he came into the diner one morning, after you told him about your marriage to Ben. I have never seen a man's eyes filled with such devastation in all my life, and I've seen alot of men in alot of circumstances. All the fears came back to me...all the anger, stronger than ever before, because I couldn't believe that he would have the nerve to make his move now, when you had developed a home and family, had found a comfortable place in life."  
  
Michael didn't know whether to be outraged or thankful, disappointed or dismayed. His head was spinning. But he knew all those emotions were worthless, useless. It was in the past, done and over with. All he could do was wonder - wonder if her words held any truth.  
  
He felt the onset of a headache.  
  
"So basically, you put me down all those time because you wanted to keep us out of each other's pants."  
  
"That's what it seems like on the outside, but underneath, I just wanted to save you from destroying the most beautiful friendship I've ever seen. You needed each other, but more importantly - that boy needed you. He still does. Unlike I've ever seen someone need another person before."  
  
Michael's faraway eyes jerked to meet his mother's. Had she just said that?  
  
"Answer me this, Michael. I know there have been times - at least one that I know of - when you and Brian have treaded the line between friends and lovers; maybe it was years ago or maybe it was recently. At those times, were you ready for each other? Was Brian ready to give you what you want?"  
  
Michael rubbed at his eyes. "I don't know."  
  
Debbie leaned back, and nodded softly. "And only you can know. It was wrong of me, very wrong of me, to presume to know. To try and take control. I'm sorry, Michael."  
  
"Yeah. I just...I'm trying to digest all of this."  
  
"I know, sweetheart. Love is a complicated thing."  
  
Michael sent Debbie a good-hearted glower. "So are mothers."  
  
Debbie grinned. "Eat a muffin, you little asshole." She rose and fixed two plates, not noticing when Michael leaned his head on the table and massaged his temples.  
  
"Butter, or no - Michael? What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing. Just a headache."  
  
"Oh. I was afraid you decided that you hate me, so in that case, butter or no butter?"  
  
"No butter. Gotta keep my figure," came the muffled reply.  
  
"Speaking of which, have you been working out?"  
  
"I always work out."  
  
"More than usual, I mean. Your biceps look like a fuckin' rib roast." Debbie reached over to pinch the aforementioned body part, but Michael jerked his arm back.  
  
"So now you're comparing me to a piece of meat?" he teased, attempting to erase her concerned frown with projected nonchalance. Fuck, it would be just like her to yank up his sleeve up, and...  
  
"Honey, I wouldn't be the first," she cackled, turning to retrieve the plates. Michael let out a silent breath of relief. She returned and placed in front of him a bright orange plate, complete with gooey muffin and pools of melted butter.  
  
"Ma, I believe I said to forego the lakes of butter."  
  
"Ooops, I forgot. Well, your gettin' too skinny anyways. And what's with that contraption on your wrist? Some kind of kinky, built in hand-cuff?"  
  
"Ma, please, can we eat breakfast without the lewd comments? It's a wrist cuff, and it happens to be in style."  
  
Debbie snorted. "If that's style, then I should be runnin' around in my knickers."  
  
Michael pushed a soggy bit of muffin around with his fork. Food was not his friend today. "And give Pittsburgh a collective heart-attack?"  
  
"No need to flatter me. I don't look _that_ good in my drawers."  
  
Michael rolled his eyes and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. "I gotta get to work."  
  
"Sure honey. Oh, by the way, Rodney and Vic are coming over for dinner tonight. Eight o'clock. I'm making your favorite, so I expect you to be here."  
  
Michael rose and took a swig of his untouched orange juice. "Can't."  
  
"And why the hell not? Your single now, for chrissakes."  
  
Michael held back a sarcastic retort, and headed for the door. "I have other plans."  
  
She flinched when the door closed, even though the sound was not loud. Michael was hiding something from her. She knew it - deep down in her bones.  
  
She also knew that no matter how much she raved about Brian getting Michael into trouble, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that Michael wasn't safe without him around. It was a secret she would never let go of, but whenever Michael was with Brian, she always knew he would be safe.  
  
Which is why she wished he were here right now.

* * *

Babylon was different tonight.  
  
It wasn't the music, the pulsating lights, nor the typical assemblage of horny patrons. It was the man who observed these things from beneath a fringe of sooty lashes, lowered seductively against pale cheekbones. An intoxicating blend of sensuality and innocence.  
  
It did not go unnoticed.  
  
Michael's steps were sure and unhurried as he converged on the dance floor. The sea of sweat slicked muscles seemed to part and turn as one, examining the assumed newcomer with appreciative stares. Lust infused gazes were prompted to track his every move. Compulsive hands, itching for even the lightest brush of contact, reached out to touch cotton, denim, or glowing skin. Whatever could be reached.  
  
With liquid ease, Michael found his place in the dead center of Babylon's floor, and just as easily, found his own rhythm to the slow, heavy beat. He tipped his head back, and closed his eyes. He could feel, advancing slowly from all sides, the heat of swaying bodies, oozing with tangible auras of lust and sex. It emanated through the sexual miasma like waves of radioactivity, soaking him to the very core. The tangible sensation of so many eyes, raw with prurient intents, concentrated on him at once was enough to make his skin burn and prickle with anticipation.  
  
He wanted to forget. He wanted the voices, both real and imagined, to stop.  
  
_"Now you'll know Michael, and maybe you'll care."  
  
"I'll call you, Mr. Novotny, with the results of your test within the week. And remember that..."  
  
"So maybe we should just stop. Go our separate ways. Because we don't seem to understand each other anymore."  
  
"I can see it in your eyes, how this is affecting you. It will destroy you, piece by piece, if you let it. So..."  
  
"No, Michael. He loves you."  
  
"Always have, always will. I don't know how I could've made it without you."  
  
"Mr. Novotny, I have your test results, and hate to inform you..."_  
  
True to his intention, suggestive touches pulled him from the fog of voices. Hands gripped his thighs, pulling, sliding, and Michael opened his eyes. Too young. He shook his head, and the twink moved on with a shrug. The vacancy was immediately filled. A lithe body sidled up behind him, the owner making no effort to hide the accumulating proof of his arousal. A hand snaked around to grab for his crotch, but Michael deftly slid out from under the greedy hands. Too demanding.  
  
It wasn't long before another body pressed against his back, but the hands were slow and persuasive, smoothing up and down his sides with feather touches. Fingers slid through his belt loops, and with a gentle tug, his ass was molded against a hot groin, fitting like a piece of a glorious puzzle. Simultaneously, lips kissed the base of his neck and he felt the tickle of short hair sweep the skin beneath his jaw.  
  
A voice roughened by lust whispered against the back of his ear. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you."  
  
"Excuse me?" Michael turned his head, the movement bringing his lips a breath away from those of his companion. Sapphire eyes bore into him. The fingers left his belt loops, and sneaked underneath his skin tight tee, caressing the bare flesh beneath. Warm fingertips toyed with the baby fine hairs peeking above his low rise jeans. Michael sucked in a sharp breath, and pushed against the hardness behind him, earning a little grunt of surprised appreciation from his dance partner. A deep rumble of laughter followed, and the husky baritone sent pleasant vibrations across the back of Michael's neck.  
  
"Okay, so maybe that sounded like a lame pick-up line, but I did think of you for days after you came to my apartment, looking for your friend." Lips created delicate suction on the skin behind his ear. "You never told me your name."  
  
Michael turned in the arms that held him, stepping back. An ice blue gaze raked over his body, then pulled him close, craving contact after having stared his momentary fill. Michael rested his palms against firm pecs and allowed himself a lopsided grin - and a wicked look from beneath lowered lashes. "Yeah. But you told me yours. Grant, isn't it?"  
  
Grant dipped his head to lick the trickles of perspiration from the side of Michael's neck, growling against the salty skin. "Yes. Please, tell me your name. Before I go insane."  
  
Smiling, he thrust his lower body tight against Grant's hardness, and leaned in just long enough to whisper one word in Grant's ear before pulling back again. "Michael."  
  
Grant raised his head, and let his lips hover over Michael's flushed cheek while he gazed into the deepest pair of brown eyes he'd ever seen. He couldn't believe it was him. A few days after he had knocked on his door, and Grant had finally been able to forget the sad chocolate eyes, the perfect ass, the pouty lips, and the black hair that looked so incredibly soft; but now that he saw him again, and felt the tight, compact body move against him, the surge of desire was as white hot as it had been that afternoon.  
  
"Michael." His lips burned to taste the plump, pink ones so achingly close to his own, yet so far away. "May I kiss you?"  
  
In answer, Michael fisted the short hair at the back of his head and pressed their mouths together. Grant could only moan as a long, warm tongue flexed and lapped, massaging his own. He drank him in, enraptured by his touch. Fuck. He couldn't ever recall being kissed so thoroughly.  
  
Michael pulled back after a immeasurable amount of time, but Grant followed the retreating lips, not willing to let go just yet. Michael laughed into their joined mouths, finally pulling far enough away that Grant was forced to let go. Michael traced Grant's kiss swollen lips with the end of his thumb, a mischievious glint dancing in his eyes. "Yes, you can kiss me."  
  
Any response or eager acknowledgment Grant might have offered died on his lips when flashing strobe lights caught and refracted off Michael's ring finger. Damn. He had forgotten.  
  
"You're married." He was already beginning to pull away in embarrassed disappointment. He could do many things, but he could not have sex with a married man. And he really didn't trust himself in this situation.  
  
Michael looked down, and Grant was so riveted to the sight of long, dark lashes fanned against ivory cheeks that he almost missed Michael's soft reply. "No, I'm not."  
  
"Then why are you wearing this?" He lifted the hand wearing the gold band, unable to resist brushing his lips against the pads of long fingers.  
  
"Do you always ask so many questions?" And then Michael was kissing him again, and he didn't care if he was married, single, taken, or what-the-fuck-ever. He had to have him, if only for a quick fuck.  
  
"My place," he breathed, intoxicated by Michael's subtle dominance, by the way he took charge without being loud and rough about it. He gave a temptingly perfect, jean-clad ass cheek a promising squeeze before pulling Michael along behind him. As they hastily exited the club, the blast of cold December air hit their hot faces like the sting of a slap.  
  
The car ride was made in deafening silence. Michael stared out the window, and Grant pushed the speed limit. Once in the elevator, hands and mouths roamed freely. Their positions against the wall alternated until the lift halted, and Grant was left slumped in the corner, breathless and boneless.  
  
"You coming?" Michael's voice was shaky, and his eyes, black with desire, held a note of fearful diffidence. Grant rushed forward and covered the parted lips with his own, pushing them closer to the door. He wasn't going to give Michael any chance to change his mind.  
  
The closer they got to entering the loft, the more reluctant Michael became. Grant's heart fell. Had Michael changed his mind?  
  
Once inside, he pushed Michael against the cold door, trying to set the alarm and remove Michael's shirt at the same time. He finally abandoned the alarm, and tasted soft lips before pulling the tight black tee over Michael's head, noticing, with increasing discomfort, how Michael's eyes flickered over the expanse of the loft with an unreadable expression.  
  
He moved to taste creamy white skin, and then he saw them - dark, purple bruises, in the shape of hands and fingerprints, splotching over sloped and muscled biceps.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
Michael emerged from his sexual haze, snapping from his strange examination of the loft and meeting Grant's eyes with an indifferent shrug that screamed "none of your business".  
  
"A guy got a little rough with me."  
  
Grant was about to curse, about to assure the trembling man in his arms that he could not fathom how anyone could even think of harming him; but Michael was devouring his lips, his chest. Clothes were removed with agile fingers. Grant could focus only on shards of pleasure shooting through his body from scrap of Michael's blunt nails. He backed them towards the raised platform, towards his bed.  
  
Michael froze and jerked on Grant's belt loops.  
  
"Not there."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Not there. Please. Here."  
  
Michael's eyes were bright and reflective in the wash of moonlight, the brown depths almost pleading. What was going on? He looked physically ill for a fraction of second, but then he grinned slowly, seductively, showing every one of his straight, white teeth. Grant forgot everything as he pulled Michael to the soft rug below, and was conscious only of the trails of fire left by Michael's tongue, teeth, fingers and lips. Breath became ragged and sharp, and the apartment echoed with guttural utterances of pleasure.

* * *

"Fuck me. Now."  
  
On all fours, Michael wanted nothing more than the empty fulfillment of a meaningless fuck. He wanted to forget; he wanted to purge the fear, the anger, and all the hurt with quick, hard thrusts. He wanted to lose himself on the edge of bliss.  
  
_What am I doing?_  
  
All contact was removed from Michael's body as Grant prepared himself. He looked over his shoulder, making certain that protection was used - not that it mattered in his case, he thought wryly - bitterly. The sudden lose of physical contact roused unbidden voices, thoughts, and images to fill the diversionary void. He fisted the short strands of the shag rug when Grant entered him in one smooth motion. The voices disappeared. Fuzzy pin-pricks dotted his vision as the burn of pleasure crept from his belly and flooded his entire body.  
  
They began to move, and Michael met Grant's slow strokes with vigorous, upwards thrusts of his hips, encouraging a faster pace. The river stone around his neck bounced softly against his chest with each frantic motion.  
  
The frenzied pace continued until bursts of white shattered behind his eyelids. He was so close. But instead of spasms of piquant pleasure, his roiling emotions surged together like the clouds of a hurricane, tightening and coiling in his chest, breaking with an anguished cry that was near painful. He opened eyes stinging with sweat, and hanging below him was the turquoise stone. Reminding him. A single tear fell to mingle with the droplets of sweat.  
  
After a strangled cry, Grant withdrew, and Michael rolled over onto his back, trying to remember the last time he had climaxed with the mental image of Brian in place. It had been a very, very long time.  
  
He wouldn't even have remembered that another man was beside him, if not for the exclamations of a quaky voice, still reeling from orgasm. "Fuck...Holy shit..."  
  
Michael wanted to get up and leave, but he didn't trust his legs yet, and he wasn't ready to leave the loft. He didn't want to walk through it again, didn't want to be reminded of what was no more. His fingers absently sifted through the shag rug, remembering that warm October day, so long ago, when he and Brian had shared lunch, a joint, and a soul shattering kiss.  
  
He ached for him. Ached, even after rough, titillating sex, for the emptiness to be filled.  
  
Michael glanced over at the nearly incoherent man beside him, and took in the high cheekbones, the gentle, piercing eyes, and the glistening, sculpted body - and the way he kept a protective hand resting at Michael's back. A rush of abashment swept through him, sponging up the last prickling tingles of his release.  
  
Is this what it felt like to use someone? For sex, for a cursory escape from reality? How had Brian lived his entire sexual life like this?  
  
Grant rolled over and nuzzled at his neck. Michael resisted the temptation to pull away. The touch, though unwanted, was concededly soothing. He allowed himself to simply lay there, the softness of the rug absorbing his sweat. His head throbbed from withheld tears.  
  
Grant settled an arm over Michael's chest, his fingers skimming over the faded edge of a bruise.  
  
"I could fall in love with you."  
  
Michael wanted to laugh, but that would border on cruel. "You just met me."  
  
"I don't care. I could."  
  
Michael turned his head. "Then don't."  
  
"Is it my age?"  
  
Michael sniffed. "I fucked a forty-year-old when I was nineteen. I was in a serious relationship with one when I was thirty."  
  
Grant looked away and nodded. Wounded silence followed.  
  
Michael let his eyes wander over the loft. How could just being here hurt so bad, yet feel so good? Minutes ago, when the elevator had stopped, he almost bailed. He wasn't sure he could do it. He had forgotten just what exactly Grant's seductive plea to go his place meant; he had forgotten that Grant lived in Brian's loft. Once in Grant's Dodge, he had almost demanded to be taken to his place instead. But just how silly was that?  
  
And at first, the thought of fucking another man in Brian's bed fulfilled some kind of sick, twisted revenge for the time Brian had so carelessly fucked Justin in his childhood room. The room where they had made so many memories together; where Brian had touched him intimately for the first time.  
  
But he wasn't like Brian. He couldn't do it.  
  
Grant's voice broke into his thoughts and jerked him back in the moment. "What's this? It's beautiful." His fingertips brushed over the smooth surface of the stone resting atop Michael's chest, rising and falling with each breath. Michael looked down at it, contemplating it, trying to find words.  
  
"It's...special." Michael scooped the cool oval into his palm, flipping it over to reveal the small, carved letters.  
  
"What does it say?" Grant squinted in the dim light, reading off the letters. "A...l...."  
  
"Always."  
  
He could feel Grant staring at his profile. "Did your husband give it to you?"  
  
"No. Someone I love."  
  
"I see."  
  
Michael bit his bottom lip. Grant leaned over for a kiss, but he turned his head, rising up to search for his clothes. He didn't want to send Grant the wrong message, and he didn't want to lead him on. He seemed like a nice man.  
  
"So are you some kind of minimalist or something?" He asked, referring to the sparse amount of furnishings within the loft.  
  
Grant watched his every move, taking in the supple lines of Michael's body as he pulled on his jeans. "No. I'm moving again. Family problems. Again."  
  
Michael paused in the midst of buttoning up his fly. "So you'll be selling?"  
  
"As much as I hate to, yeah. I really love this place. But I have to go back home, to Colorado. In a few weeks actually."  
  
Michael retrieved his shirt, pulling it over his head and tucking away the stone. "Good luck. I hope everything works out for you."  
  
Grant's smile was tinged with sadness. "Thank you."  
  
Michael returned the smile, looking over his shoulder and pulling a Red Cape business card from his back pocket, setting it atop the kitchen counter on his way to the door.  
  
"Call me. I might be interested in the loft."

* * *

With the choice of walking or hailing a cab, Michael opted the latter. He needed to get away from the loft. Fast.  
  
Once in the back seat, he buried his face in his hands, his breathing shallow and uneven against his palms. He tried to pretend that tears weren't slipping through his fingers and pattering on the leather seat below.  
  
Without looking up, he knew the cab was close to his mother's house. He straightened himself and dried stray tears with his sleeve.  
  
The instant the loft door had slide closed behind him, a brief inner battle had been fought. Home, or Babylon? He knew if he returned to Babylon, he would only repeat what he'd just done with a different face and a different body. And then he'd feel twice as shitty. Or maybe twice as good. He couldn't decide. All he wanted was the gratifying escape of sleep, but even that particular simplicity was a dubious guarantee.  
  
He paid the driver and walked down the concrete path with heavy steps, dismayed by the sight of a soft glow sifting through the window. He had hoped his mother would be in bed.  
  
He thought it best to knock, or else scare the shit out his her and risk having his face smashed in with a baseball bat. When she didn't answer, he used his key, creaking the door open slowly as he peered inside, the smell of garlic and fresh bread lacing the air and filling his lungs.  
  
His mother sat at the kitchen table, her face in her hands and her shoulders hunched and shaking.  
  
"Ma, what's wrong? Are you okay?"  
  
She shook her head, and he caught a few garbled words between muffled sobs.  
  
They were enough to know.  
  
Air that was already hard to come by left his body in a rush, and he kneeled on the floor beside her, burying his face in the itchy fabric of her sweater and hugging her midsection. Michael felt a great weight settle upon him. Like a blanket made of soft lead, it pressed on him; and he could hardly kneel there without bowing. He heard himself muttering quiet assurances, but he didn't know exactly what he was saying, or if she even heard.  
  
He could only hold her, and hope she knew that everything would be okay.

* * *

**NEXT DAY - KINNECTIC - LOS ANGELES**  
  
"I'm impressed, Kinney. That was a very comprehensive pitch. "  
  
"Please, call me Brian."  
  
"Certainly, Ryan."  
  
From his position behind and to the left of Stover, Russ smirked in Brian's direction - revenge for the smirk his boss had tossed him when Stover had mistaken - misheard? - his name and repetitively addressed him as 'Brussel'.  
  
Stover, an aging man with a gravelly voice and a generous waistline; proved to be overtly hard of hearing, notably farsighted, and the type of person who seemed to take great liking to everyone he came in contact with. Only minutes into the pitch, and Brian knew the account would be a cinch to land. Stover was butter in his hands.  
  
"Very good indeed. An informative presentation and unique approach, Mr. Kinney. It will be a great pleasure working with you. You'll go far, my lad, with brains like yours. The advertising world is becoming quite rote these days. You're a breath of fresh air, my boy."  
  
Brian mentally cringed at the umpteenth use of 'my lad' and 'my boy'. A few years ago, he doubted he would have possessed the ability to keep the blatant irritation from his tone. "Thank you, Mr. Stover. The pleasure is all mine."  
  
My, how the meaning of those words had changed over the years, too. In this case, at least.  
  
They shook hands, and with great effort, Stover rose from his chair.  
  
Brian aligned a stack of papers with a tap on the table. "May I interest you in lunch? Unfortunately, previous arrangements demand my attention and keep me from joining you, but my secretary knows some of the finest steak houses in the area. Russell?"  
  
Brian saw Russell's jaw clench as he paused in the midst of jotting notes on his clipboard. He looked up at Brian with a patient smile, but Brian could discern the barest glint of irritation in the brown eyes.  
  
"Of course, Brian, I would be glad to accompany Mr. Stover to lunch. Do you like seafood, Mr. Stover?"  
  
Stover looked at Russ as if seeing him for the first time, squinting over the rim of small, round spectacles. "Dear boy, I adore seafood! I grew up on the coast, you know. All the fresh crab and lobster you could imagine. That is, way back in my day, before they put these preposterous new laws into effect. I do say, it is a shame, you know, the things they must do these days." Stover paused and eyed Russ with curiosity. "Have I met you before?"  
  
"No sir, I don't believe you have. I would remember a gentleman such as yourself." Russell's tone was polite and sincere, but Brian knew the smaller man well enough to detect the hidden sarcasm.  
  
"What a charming young lad you have as a secretary, Mr. Kinney! My granddaughter Bessie would simply adore you. She likes the smaller, less imposing type of men - the 'yes dear' type of man. Runs in the family, actually - all the poor girl knows. Are you attached?"  
  
Russ's eyes widened at the man's brazenness. He bristled when from the corner of his eye; he saw Brian duck his head in restrained amusement.  
  
"No sir, I'm not."  
  
"Ah, lovely! I will simply have to introduce the two of you. Well then! Lets get to lunch, shall we young man?"  
  
"Of course." Stover turned and started for the door, and Russ took the opportunity to look pointedly at Brian and rub his middle finger between his eyes. Brian smirked and crooked a finger, signaling for Russ to meet him in his office. Russ showed Stover out the door. "Just one minute, and I'll be right with you."  
  
He walked briskly across the stark conference room and through the clear double doors of Brian's office. Brian was already pecking away at his keyboard, but looked up at Russ with a satisfied grin.  
  
Russ crossed his arms, waiting for Brian to speak. "Well? I take it that was not a sexual gesture," he said, referring to the 'come here' motion of Brian's index finger. "What was that 'previous arrangement' line of bull? You always take the client to dinner."  
  
"Not this one. Besides, he's quite smitten with you."  
  
"You don't say. The old buzzard practically got me engaged and arranged my wedding. Why do I always get the annoying ones?"  
  
Brian just looked at him.  
  
"Nevermind."  
  
"I need you to do something for me. Take all my calls for the next few hours."  
  
"What? How I am supposed to do that with grandpa in tow?"  
  
"You're the charming, 'yes dear' type of man, you figure it out."  
  
Russ sighed and looked towards the ceiling in exasperated resignation. "Fuck me."  
  
"If I recall, I already did."  
  
"Twice."  
  
"Don't remind me. Can you do that?"  
  
"Between stories of the good old days, fishing lobsters out of the sea, and arranging my wedding, yes, I think I can handle it," Russ said with a pout. He'd probably get flamed for his next question, but he felt Brian owed him, and he'd also like at least a small warning if there was even a chance his evening might consist of bailing the ad man out of jail or coming to his rescue when the cops found him passed out in an alley somewhere.  
  
"What are you going to do? Get shit-faced again?"  
  
"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm going to call him."  
  
Russ didn't need to enquire on who 'he' was. He grinned and affected Mr. Stover's accent - quite well, too. "Well, jolly good, my boy!"  
  
It was Brian's turn to glower. "Russ, get your ass out of here before I fire you." He tossed Russ the cell he used solely for business purposes.  
  
Russ clipped phone to his pants. "If Gehle calls, should I connect him directly to you?"  
  
Brian rubbed at his forehead, and Russ noticed dark circles underneath the hazel eyes. "No. Tell him I'm in a meeting."  
  
"Got it. Anything else?"  
  
Brian's personal cell chose that moment to ring. Russ felt the first frisson of unease when Brian bit his bottom lip and scrunched his eyebrows together as he read the LCD screen.  
  
"'Lo?"  
  
The unease intensified when Brian paled, leaning back into his chair as if all the muscles in his body had suddenly turned to jello. Brian's gaze remained unfocused for several seconds, listening to what Russ could only guess was very bad news, before long lashes fluttered closed in distress. Brian leaned forward, rifling through the various papers of his desk and snatching up a pen. Looking almost as if he were in terrible pain, he scribbled hastily, then held up the paper for Russ to see.  
  
**GET ME A FLIGHT - NOW.**  
  
Russ slipped out the door, not waiting to question.

* * *

Brian tried Emmett's cell. No answer.  
  
He tried Ted's. Voice mail.  
  
Swearing, he dialed Deb's house. No answer.  
  
He pounded the steering wheel when he tried Michael's apartment, and for the tenth time, was met with no answer.  
  
"Where in the fucking hell is everyone?"  
  
He heard honking and realized he'd cut someone off. Eyes darting between the slushy highway and the green glow of his phone screen, he casually flipped the bird in the reflection of his rear-view mirror.  
  
The traffic came to a trickling stop. He scrolled through the digital phonebook until he found Ben's cell number, stored in case of emergency. He dialed it, frowning when a mechanical voice informed him that the number was out of the service area. He put his perplexity aside, and tried Michael's cell one last time.  
  
"Hi, you've reached Michael Novotny, please leave a message. Thanks."  
  
Just the recorded voice of his best friend was enough to send Brian's heart frantically hammering within his chest, enough to make his mouth dry and the crisp air suddenly difficult for his lungs to circulate.  
  
Out of numbers to dial, he could only rap his fingers against the window, cursing the weather, useless cell phones, shitty vehicles, self-righteous police officers, and all the asshats surrounding him that somehow possessed driver's licenses. It wasn't the end of the world - just a little goddamned snow, for chrissakes.Well, not really - his flight had been delayed because of it.  
  
The traffic began to move - albeit slowly. Snail-fucking slow. Brian ground his teeth.  
  
Two painfully long hours later, and he found himself at Deb's house.  
  
Michael's apartment had been empty. With those accursed butterflies partying in earnest, he'd used the 'widdle key' he had never taken off his key chain, and opened the apartment door to darkness and emptiness - not the warmth he had longed to be his and Michael's everytime he had visited Michael and Ben. It belonged to him. Not Ben.  
  
But something was wrong, something was different - and after walking into Michael's bedroom, he knew what. Ben was gone. Hunter was gone.  
  
Oh God. Where was Michael?  
  
Brian felt sick. He had to get to him, and somehow, he knew where to find him. He knew the places Michael went when he was hurting, and Brian couldn't get the desolated voice from his head.  
  
_Uncle Vic is dying._  
  
He had fled the apartment like a bat out of hell and headed for Deb's house, driving as fast as the shitty rental car and slippery roads would allow.  
  
Now, after all the rushing and agonizing, he froze, hand poised over the doorknob. Fuck! Brian Kinney didn't do nervous. He didn't care what other people thought of him. He didn't fear rejection.  
  
But the sole exception was Michael - and the need to see Michael, to hold him, to touch him - overwhelmed any and all fears.  
  
The smells of Debbie's kitchen encompassed him like a warm bath, and the mere essence of the house in which he had spent the majority of his childhood evaporated the better part of his rampaging jitters. Until he reached the stairs. Stairs he had treaded so many times, with one destination, one person, in mind.  
  
He walked, for some reason, very slowly up the steps, and stopped at Michael's door. Leaning his forehead against the cold frame, he took a deep breath, blew half of it out, and slowly turned the knob.  
  
He felt so many things at once that he almost fell to his knees.  
  
He felt whole again.  
  
Michael lay asleep on the small bed, his back curved and facing away from him. The covers were pulled halfway up his fully clothed form, rising and falling with each gentle breath - reminding Brian to breath. And he did. For the first time in three months.  
  
He didn't know how long he stood, staring at the back of the raven head, watching the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. Time seemed mired in thick mud.  
  
Finally, he quietly shed his clothes, laying them neatly on the chest at the end of the bed. His eyes never left Michael. His steps faltered when was finally able to see Michael's face, to take in the features he loved, so beautiful in the repose of slumber.  
  
He kneeled upon the carpet next to the bed, leaning towards Michael's peaceful face until they were inches apart. Michael's hand was fisted, resting over his mouth. His other hand was sandwiched between cheek and pillow.  
  
Brian ached to touch him. Ached to taste his lips. Ached to hold him and never let go.  
  
He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, and reached out a tentative hand to stroke the spiky softness of Michael's hair, studying the face that had filled his dreams, his every waking thought, and his very being. The face he had memorized so many years ago for those times they were apart.  
  
How had he ever brought himself to leave this man? _Why do I ask myself questions to which I already know the answers? _he mused absently, stealing the line from Michael's favorite movie. Not seeing Michael at all was better than seeing Michael with Ben. Happy with Ben.  
  
The need to see Michael's eyes, hear his voice, and have to his touch reciprocated was overwhelming. It took conscious effort, but he didn't want to wake him. Not yet. He was content to watch Michael sleep, to soak up his presence, so warm and soothing - like the rays of the sun.  
  
Eyelashes stirred, and Brian's heart seized within his throat. Burying his fingertips in the silky hair, he stilled the hand that had been petting the top of velvet spikes, and rested his other arm on the edge of the mattress.  
  
Sleepy brown eyes slowly fluttered opened, and gazed at Brian - through Brian. It was as if Michael had known Brian had been there all along, and had anticipated waking to his beautiful face. The curled hand fell from Michael's mouth and landed atop Brian's arm, gliding over soft, downy hairs to finally thread their fingers together.  
  
Neither knew how long they stared into each other's eyes. No words were needed - nothing verbal could articulate what they were feeling. When Michael's lips curved in a small smile, Brian mirrored the action. _Jesus Christ. He's not mad. What a fucking relief._  
  
The relief rapidly gave way to a myriad of other emotions, none of which could possibly be described.  
  
Brian felt he would shatter into a million pieces when Michael began tracing the contours of his face with the tip of his index finger; brushing over his lips, across his forehead, down his cheeks - no surface was left untouched. Brian's eyes closed and a breath shuddered through him, shaking his very soul. So long; so long he had thirsted for the feel of Michael's hands.  
  
"Mikey."  
  
"Brian."  
  
The names were spoken as a gentle caress, a consummate acknowledgement of the mergence of tactility, simulacrum, and reality. An acknowledgement that this was real and happening - and more importantly, that what had happened between them, the angry words that had tore them apart; were forgiven.  
  
Then Brian was in Michael's arms, wrapping around him. Their fronts melded together, pressed close and tight. Legs entwined, squeezed, and clasped. They could not get close enough; they wanted crawl beneath the safety of the other's warm skin, and stay there forever.  
  
Brian held Michael's head lightly within his hands, and placed soft, butterfly kisses all over his face, tasting the salty remnants of sweat and dried tears. Then he felt the wetness of fresh tears - his own tears - and they fell to mingle with the warmth of Michael's skin, pooling in the curve of his neck. He buried his nose behind Michael's ear, above his nape, and with soft anticipation he inhaled Michael's scent - one that he secretly defined as the the purifying smell of the air before a rain or thunderstorm, tinged lightly with vanilla. But instead, he breathed in the acrid tang of sex, drugs, and alcohol.  
  
He breathed in the smell of another man. Other men. It clung to Michael's pale skin and cotton tee like a deadly parasite. Brian's stomach lurched. It seemed unfair - impossible - that with one breath, thousands of unwanted thoughts were summoned; thoughts that threatened to ravish the moment.  
  
Something he didn't want to examine pierced his heart like a knife - not sharp, but dull. Painful.  
  
Michael was murmuring Brian's name and pressing small kisses beneath the soft skin of his jaw. Brian moved his head, their foreheads bumping and sliding. They rubbed their noses together, and lips nudged whatever skin could be reached. Their hearts, pressed close, beat as if they had been running for miles, running to find each other, until together, they finally beat as one.  
  
Questions and demands formed on Brian's tongue, but Michael caught his lips with his own, stilling his fears with a brief kiss.  
  
"Don't say anything. Please. Just hold me."  
  
Brian could only nod against Michael's forehead, and kiss him like he had in his dreams; parting slack, welcoming lips with his tongue and tasting the warm recesses of his mouth. It was a deep kiss of relieved desperation; like that a man who has been wandering a barren desert in unquenched thirst, and is finally given the water he craves - the water he needs to survive.  
  
When Brian feared his heart would burst within his chest, he slowly pulled his lips from Michael's, and placed three short, sloppy kisses on reddened lips before drawing the raven head to cradle against his neck.  
  
Clinging to each other; they fell into deep, dreamless sleep - for the first time since that warm October day in the loft, so long ago.

* * *

_TBC....._

_Author's Note_ : (the last one, really!) : _sigh_ Those two are going to have alot to talk about in the morning. I hope that the necklace idea hasn't already been done. I've read alot of fics, but not all, so if this idea has been used, my apologies for being redundant. I just like the idea of Michael giving Brian the bracelet, and Brian giving Michael something; something that they wear to keep each other close at all times. I'm going to touch on it more in later chapters, but thought I'd leave it as a little bit of a mystery for the time being. As always, thanks for reading. :-)


	10. Chapter Ten

**Author:** Samantha (Sam)

**Feedback: **I greatly appreciate feedback.

**Pairing:** Br/M, of course, with initial B/J, Be/M overtones. T/E

**Rating:** R

**Genre:** Angst, Romance, WIP

**Summary:** Michael has some news for Brian. Brian can't cope, and pushes Michael - and himself - too far.

**Special Thanks:** To everyone who has sent, and continues to send, such lovely feedback, on and off-list.

**Spoilers:** Through Season 4

**Warnings:** AU (which constitutes the plot - NOT the characters), WIP. And - very angsty and dark - but with a happy ending.

**Disclaimer:** I'm just playing in Cowlip's sandbox. No profit is generated from this. QAF and Brian/Michael are not mine. But oh, if they were..._evil grin ___

* * *

I thought love was just a mirage of the mind,  
it's an illusion, it's fake, impossible to find.  
But the day I met you, I began to see,  
that love is real, and exists in me.  
  
- Chris Farmer -

* * *

****

**BE MY DOWNFALL **

_**Chapter Ten**_

He was ascending a euphoric, spiraling staircase; the transitional barrier between sleep and waking, the time and place between dreams and reality -- an immuring shroud of liquid warmth and contentment that he was not particularly eager to shed. It was a slow, steady climb; heightened by the sensation of a bare body pressed up against him, radiating waves of soothing heat that served to pleasantly stave off the assiduous cold of his old room -- that is, if he was actually _in_ his old room.

Wherever he was, Michael somehow knew that outside the fortification of his warm, fluffy Captain Astro comforter and the thermal wall of an anonymous body prevailed hellishly cold December air, and an even colder floor -- but there was carpet covering the floor of his old room, wasn't there? And he had fucked that trick in the backroom, hadn't he? Surely to God he hadn't allowed himself to get so shit-faced that he had actually taken that green-eyed stud home. If that were the case, then he fervently hoped -- as much as was humanly possible, given the brumous state of his frontal lobe -- that he was in his own apartment and NOT at his mother's house.

There was another oddity that demanded coherence for solvency. He was clothed, yet his companion was not. How did you fuck with clothes on?

An indeterminable mumble of sleepy complaint coupled with the feel of the comforter inching off his right shoulder brought Michael closer to the ill-favored summit of the winding staircase -- better known as waking. He was also becoming increasingly aware of how deliciously tight he was pressed along the toasty length of his companion, and how the slope and contours of their legs, hips, and mid-sections melted together so perfectly -- as if their bodies had been created with the principal intention of meshing together with paradisiacal congruity.

The body in question was breathing gently, sending warm, lulling exhalations rippling across the surface of his skin, tickling the curve of his ear. The rhythmic inhalations were underlined with a funny little wheeze, and a light snore -- the latter of which prompted a lazy smile to tug the corner of his lips. He couldn't wait to tell him that he was starting to snore. What ammunition.

Michael wiggled as the comforter was pulled past his shoulder, the pillowy fabric gradually sliding to bare his side, allowing the bitter cold to creep under the warm nest of tangled limbs and wrinkled linen.

With a frown, Michael hunkered down into the pillow, the movement causing his nose to brush against his companion's. Again, his subconscious niche was momentarily surprised by how close they were; but that was completely natural, yet not natural. Or so his sleep fuzzed brain deduced.

Smiling, he nuzzled at the nose, and blindly grabbed for a handful of comforter, pulled, and sighed his contentment as the fabric -- delightfully suffused with conjoint body heat -- fell back into place. It wasn't long, however, before it was irritably jerked back off, and further this time.

A voice thick with sleep rattled his eardrums. "Mmfhp. Fuck off. My covers."

Geez, he could be crabby in the morning -- but in a totally endearing way. Michael ran a bare foot up the inside of the long leg twisted about his own, tickling the faint dusting of soft hairs with a wriggle of his toes. The other man was fatally ticklish there, Michael knew, and he smirked triumphantly through his sleep when he earned a tiny laugh, and another nuzzle to his nose as a sluggish foot pitifully attempted to shove his tickling one away. Satisfied that the cover stealer was distracted, he pulled again, and this time he didn't let go when the comforter settled over him. "You fuck off. My covers."

His companion rumbled a short laugh of surrender, and decided to solve the conflict by sharing. He scooted closer, resting his cheek against Michael's and burrowing under the inviting den of shared heat. Not an inch separated them now, and the gratifying sensation drew forth from Michael a deep, contented exhalation. Every muscle and bone dissolved in liquid warmth.

The things he could do with the forbidden knowledge that Brian Kinney was -- albeit secretly -- a snuggler.

Michael jolted.

Wide brown eyes shot open in shocked revelation, and a body previously floating on air stiffened -- at least, the parts that weren't already stiff.

Holy Fuck. It hadn't been a dream.

_This_ wasn't a dream.

Brian was with him, practically _on_ him...in his old bed, asleep with him, holding him...but had that kiss -- had that kiss been a dream? Or the way Brian had whispered his pet name with such raw, desperate emotion choking his typically disimpassioned voice? Probably.

As thoroughly as if someone had doused him with a bucket of ice water; Michael was at once wide awake and over-analyzing everything, as was his habit. His head spun. What had he said? And worse yet, what had he done? Drugs and grief didn't exactly make for a clear mind and laudable intentions.

He took a miniscule amount of consolation from the fact that Brian was not mad -- Brian never touched him when he was mad.

The source of Michael's broodings shifted a little, and the leg draped over Michael's hip squeezed almost cautiously, as if checking to make sure he was still there, fearing his absence.

Free from the inhibiting miasma of sleep, Michael was suddenly, acutely aware of Brian's cock pressing into his own. His eyelids fluttered shut and a simmering heat he was unable to stifle smoldered in the pit of his stomach. He could tell from the regular inhalations of Brian's breathing pattern that he was still very much asleep, and Michael reluctantly decided to seize the opportunity -- before the protective cloak of sleep was pulled away, before questions were asked and accusations were made.

Right now, he wanted only to hold and be held by the man he loved more than any other. He wanted to soak up the unremitting safety and comfort the other man always -- unconditionally -- gave to him.

Nestled against Brian's neck, Michael slowly turned his head, and planted the softest of kisses to Brian's warm cheek, savoring the prickly feel of his morning stubble and the lingering scent of aftershave. One touch -- one touch wrested so many emotions; churning and clenching his chest with almost painful intensity, threatening to boil over in a lake of hot, uncontrollable tears.

_I'm not going to cry. I'm NOT going to cry._

He ached to see Brian's face, but it was hidden in the arch of his own neck. So he settled for what he could see and reach, which wasn't settling at all. Every inch of Brian's body was a feast for the senses, the epitome of perfection -- and the only body Michael ever truly thought of as perfect; but not necessarily because of the body itself, but because of the person to whom it belonged.

Slowly, he wound his arms around Brian's back, lifting a hand from beneath the covers to curl his index finger around a silky lock of honey hair, twirling and admiring it's glossy suppleness with contemplative absence. Brian had the most beautiful hair. He had missed touching it, admiring it.

His other hand traced feather-light patterns across the smooth expanse of Brian's back, skimming over the curvature of his shoulder blades and counting the faint ridges of his spine. His fingers glided over Brian's nude skin like an ice-cube on granite, leaving trails of melting heat.

He didn't want to move and he didn't want to stop, but more than anything, he wanted to believe that this meant something he knew it did not -- that Brian would wake, and they would falls into each other's arms, and live happily ever after -- like in all the mawkish Disney movies he watched with Gus.

Michael's smile was wistful as he allowed his to hand slip down the contour of Brian's side, fingertips whispering across warm, flawless skin -- pulsing with heat and life, reminding Michael that this was real. Still, he couldn't shake the unyielding impression of being lost in a dream as fingers normally not so bold continued their descent to outline the smooth ridges of perfectly defined abdominal muscles, trailing through every subtle groove until Brian's entire stomach was sketched into his memory, mapped to his touch. Then, with tingling fingertips, he started all over again.

Immeasurable moments later, Brian began to stir, arching into the touches of Michael's caressing fingers. He gently disentangled his legs from Michael's, toes bumping the foot of the tiny bed as he sensually stretched and straightened.

Slightly embarrassed, Michael began to withdraw his hand, but Brian caught his wrist.

"Don't stop."

Faces pressed close, neither moved. They could almost hear the beat of the other's pulse, the rush of blood filling their ears, suspending them in the moment with dreamlike essence.

Locked in place, Michael's hand rested on the center of Brian's stomach, and Brian's fingers remained wrapped around Michael's wrist, the accelerated thump of the veins beneath his fingertips mimicking the frenetic pounding of his own heart.

It seemed like hours, but after mere seconds; Brian sensed Michael's discomfort and pulled back, looking into Michael's eyes for the first time that morning.

Brian's expression shone of pleading and confusion -- maybe even tiny etches of fear. Michael merely stared back, his body rigid.

As usual, it was Michael who broke the spell. He pulled his hand away and turned over onto his back, staring at the ceiling with downcast eyes. Only a few inches separated them, but the distance felt like miles; like an impassable void complete with a bottomless pit of soul-singing flames -- a pit both would gladly fall into, if not deterred by unvoiced fears.

Brian felt the lose of closeness like a slap in the face.

His right hand rested beneath Michael's nape, trapped against the pillow. Michael hadn't moved, nor hardly blinked, and Brian solidly commanded himself to dismiss the creeping feeling of unease -- it was absurd. He had never felt uneasy around Michael.

But things were different now.

This wasn't how his dream had ended -- how he had envisioned their first morning together in three months. If his calculations were correct, they should be deep in the throes of the best orgasm of their respective lives about now. Brian started from his own thought. _But Jesus...this is _Mikey.

Unsure of what to do, what to say -- Brian flipped onto his back, mirroring Michael's action. He risked a sidelong gaze at the expressionless face of his best friend.

Michael looked severely uncomfortable.

The deafening silence was painfully awkward.

Brian felt a sharp prick of dread. _Fuck_. Had he groped Michael is his sleep, or done something that he normally told himself he should not do when he slept with his best friend? God, if he had, there was no telling what Michael would think of him..._was_ thinking of him.

He tentatively broached the subject.

"Was I....?"

"Cuddling? Yeah."

Well, that wasn't exactly what he was talking about -- he felt no shame in cuddling with Michael -- but still, it wasn't in his manual to pass up such an opportune diversion.

"You won't - "

"Tell anyone?" Michael sniffed and turned to lay on his side, his back facing Brian. "I keep my promises."

Brian hesitated momentarily, and regarded the back of Michael's head with a furrowed brow, internally smarting from the sting of intentional words; words he knew held truth.

But he wasn't going to think about that right now.

"Promises? I don't make promises." It took tremendous effort to conjure a tone that was teasing and light, a tone that echoed back on a time when he had smugly declared, _"boyfriend? I don't have a boyfriend". _In other words, a tone of deliberate and completely cognizant self-refuting denial.

Michael, however, didn't catch the jest, and proved to be in no mood for for Brian's practiced art of word mincing.

"Y'know, all these years -- and I never realized what a good liar you are."

"Mikey..." said Brian softly, appeasably. He scooted on an elbow towards Michael's unresponsive form, and gently squeezed with the hand still resting at Michael's neck, feeling heightening tension in the cords of smooth muscle. He snuck his head around Michael's shoulder, leaning in for a kiss.

"Don't." Michael's clipped plea brought Brian's advance to a screeching halt.

"Why?" He refused to keep the hurt from his voice.

Something was always very wrong when Michael refused a kiss.

"Just don't, okay?"

Brian blinked hard. He was thankful Michael's eyes were stubbornly closed, that he couldn't see the conflicting emotions flit across his face. The physical closeness they had shared only moments ago seemed like years ago, and the emotional closeness was fleeting just as quickly.

He stared at Michael's face -- at the lips he wanted to kiss so badly -- for a fraction longer before turning away. His head fell to land heavily atop the untouched pillow teetering at the edge of the bed. He swallowed back his hurt, only to have it bubble to the surface when Michael wormed his head out from under his hand.

"What the hell is your problem?"

Michael turned, and met Brian's peevish gaze with large brown eyes, glimmering with unshed tears. It was a gaze Brian knew well, a gaze that asked, "_don't you understand?"_

Brian was immediately contrite, and reached out an apologetic hand to trace Michael's jaw. "Shit. I'm sorry, Mikey. C'mere."

Michael didn't protest when Brian pulled him into arms, clutching him to his chest and cradling his head with protective arms. Brian felt a warm pitpat of tears showering his chest.

"How is he?"

Brian mentally kicked himself. What a dumb question -- Michael had said he was dying.

Michael sniffed and drew a shaky breath. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly strong. "His body is shutting down. He's...developed pneumonia...and his doctor...they said they can't do anything for him. Just a matter of time, they said."

Brian wanted to tell him that everything would be okay, that he wasn't going to die.

That would be a lie.

He could only hope his presence -- of which he wasn't entirely sure Michael wanted -- was enough.

He kissed the top of Michael's head, and whispered into his hair. "I'm sorry, Mikey." He paused, brushing his nose along the tips of mussed spikes. "How's your mom taking it?"

"As good as can be expected, I guess. She won't leave the hospital. She hardly talks."

"That's a bad sign."

Brian was surprised when Michael laughed a little, and the sound went straight to his heart. It felt so good -- beyond words, beyond the mundane pleasure of sex -- to be with Michael, to hold him, to hear his voice -- and he gave silent thanks that they were together three days sooner, even if the reason was tragic.

"I wanted to come home sooner."

This time, Michael's soft laugh was cold, brimming with disbelief. "Right."

"Fine, don't believe me. I've never lied to you before - "

" - I beg to differ - "

" - when? When the fuck have I ever lied to you?"

Michael pushed himself off Brian's chest and scooted backwards to lean against the headboard. "Brian, I don't want to talk about this right now."

"Who's avoiding the subject now?"

"I never said you were avoiding the subject."

"You're thinking it."

Annoyed, Michael quirked a doubtful brow. "Yeah? And what am I thinking now?"

Brian turned and rested his chin on the center of Michael's chest, staring up at him with what he hoped were dejected eyes.

"You're thinking about..." he squinted, scrunching up one side of his face.

"Yes?"

"Shh. I'm thinking about what you're thinking. Tedious, you know."

Michael huffed and shoved him away. "Cut it out. I don't feel like joking."

Brian was abruptly serious. "You're thinking about how furious you are at me. You don't know whether to slap me or kiss me. You want to hate me for I what did, but you realize that you were wrong, too, and you're afraid that I'm mad at you. You're glad I'm here, but you wish I'd just go away."

Michael bit at his bottom lip and looked away.

"Well?"

Stubborn silence.

Brian grinned smugly, poking him in the ribs. "That's what you're thinking, isn't it?"

Michael batted the jabbing fingers away. "Fuck off. You missed one thing."

"Four out of five ain't too shabby." Brian braced his arms on either side of Michael's body, and slithered forward with serpentine lissomeness, slowly leaning in towards Michael's impassive face. He couldn't seem to tear his eyes from Michael's pouty lips, as they came closer, and closer.

"And what, pray tell, is the one thing I missed?" he whispered seductively, swiping suggestively at his own lips with the tip of a wet, pink tongue.

Michael's hand gently pushed at the center of his chest, startling him from his seduction. Brian inwardly groaned. _Not again. _

"You don't want to know."

Close enough to feel the heat of his lips, Brian let his gaze travel up Michael's face. He almost recoiled from the bitter mixture of betrayal and sadness that darkened Michael's expressive eyes.

"Yes, I do," he lied.

"I'm thinking about how you always do this to me when you and Justin break-up, or whatever the hell it is you two do. I'm thinking about how I just realized that someone has to be dying or dead for you to come back or feel any need to talk to me."

This time, he did recoil. "How could you say that?"

Michael merely gazed at him plaintively, hugging his arms around his mid-section, and Brian thought his frown might be one of shame. It should be.

He didn't care when his words came out a pained yell. "How the FUCK can you say that about me?!"

"It's kind of obvious, isn't it? You haven't even tried to call me. It's like after that night...I ceased to exist to you."

Michael's words triggered a dull shock inside his chest. Suddenly very cold, Brian draped the comforter around his shoulders.

He knew Michael. He _knew _him. Down to the very marrow of his bones.

And something was wrong.

Michael was never so harsh and judgmental, never one to unfairly assume the worst about the people he loved.

Especially him.

_Something's happened. And it's not just Vic._

Brian took a moment to compose himself, gripping the thick comforter so tightly his bones ached and his knuckles grew numb. Or maybe it was just the inescapable cold.

"You will always exist to me, Mikey. In me. Of me." Michael averted his eyes._ Dammit. He thinks I'm playing with him._ He gripped Michael's leg, resting beside him beneath the covers. "I mean it, Michael."

"Then why? Why did you say those things? Why haven't you visited, or called, or..._something_?"

_So much hurt..._there was so much hurt in Michael's gentle eyes, so many old bruises hiding beneath a beguiling shield of indifference and stubborn tenacity.

Brian's stomach plummeted.

Because it was a hurt that had not been inflicted by him, a defense he had not prompted the construction of. Things had happened while he was away.

He shoved that disturbing notion aside -- for the moment -- and changed conversational gears. Time to say something he'd always wanted -- needed -- to say, but was too chicken shit.

"You always think you're the only one, Mikey."

Michael's eyes sharpened. "What?"

"The only one who has fears, the one who is easily hurt. But you know what, Mikey? You have always, _always_ held the power to hurt me more than I could ever hurt you -- more than anything, or anyone, could ever hurt me. Because you are everything...the only one that matters. There is no one else."

Just saying it drained him -- in an oddly exonerating type of way. He decided at that moment to tell Michael exactly how he felt more often; for maybe, he considered, it would save them from ridiculous discussions like this; cut back the soul-searching lesbian bullshit and leave more time for the fun stuff. Brian and Mikey. The thought sent tiny waves of warmth coursing through him, and wanting to share the sensation, he snuggled and curled against Michael's side, rubbing his face against Michael's stomach.

He could almost hear Michael's soft smile, and it empowered him to continue.

"I was scared to call you. Afraid to hear your voice -- afraid that you would be happy, and even weirder-- afraid that you would forgive me. That you wouldn't be missing me as badly as I was missing you."

Brian eyes closed in bliss as Michael's fingers tenderly massaged his scalp.

"I was afraid you wouldn't need me anymore," he continued softly.

Michael tugged a strand of hair in playful admonishment. "You know that could never be."

"No. I don't. You've always been the strong one, Mikey. It's me that will always need you."

"Then why did you leave?"

Brian sighed in exasperation. And here he thought his efforts were getting them somewhere. "Haven't you been listening to anything I've said?"

"Yes, I have. You need your best friend. I'm sure it was tough going through your break-up with Justin alone."

Brian unconsciously winced. His heartfelt words had been mangled into something completely unrecognizable and thrust back in his face with deliberate intent. _Why is he doing this to me? Christ, what the fuck am I whining for -- I deserve it. Everything he wants to twist around, everything cruel he wants to say to me -- I fucking deserve it. _

"You think that's what this is about?"

"Isn't it always? I mean, it's always been your job, your dad, or Justin...it's always about you. You said so yourself."

"Christ Michael, over-analyze, why don't you. When are you going to let go of the past?"

"When _you _learn from it -- and when you can accept the future."

Brian laughed derisively. "Doling out the daily helping of Professor Bruckner's fatidic bullshit, are we?"

Michael's eyes flared -- answering the question Brian didn't have to ask, validating the suspicion he didn't have to suspect. _Remember, Mikey, I can see right through you. _

Indignant, Michael started to rise, but Brian grabbed his arm, staring deeply -- sincerely -- into beloved brown eyes.

"Where's Ben?"

Tension emanated from Michael like currents of electricity.

"Why do you care?"

"Don't do that. You know why."

"New York."

"What for?"

"Because I told him to get away from me."

Michael's answer sent icy prickles down his spine. Sometimes he hated knowing Michael so well. Sometimes he hated himself for caring so much.

"Why? What happened?" he breathed, torn between elation and fear.

"Brian, I don't have time for this. I have to get to the hospital." Again, Michael made to rise. Again, Brian pulled him back down. Michael scowled.

"Dammit Michael, wait a second. Tell me what happened."

Michael jerked his arm away and growled through his teeth. "I. Don't. Have. Time. My mom is at the hospital by herself, and I want to spend time with my Uncle. Not sit here and argue with you."

"We're not arguing. I just want to know what happened. I thought - "

Michael interrupted him with an acerbic laugh. "Thought what? That we were oh so happy in wedded bliss? Well, Brian, it looks like you won the bet. We lasted a grand total of two months."

Brian studied Michael's face intently; so intently that Michael was eventually compelled to look away, fidgeting with the edge of the comforter.

"You're hiding something from me."

"Stop looking at me like that. What are you, some kind of physic now? All that California air must've went straight to your head. When are you going back, anyway?"

"I'm not. I'm staying here with you." Brian didn't think this was a good time discuss his job. It didn't matter right now.

Michael's chin raised defiantly. "I can handle this on my own."

"Sure." A deliberate pause. "Where were you last night, Michael, before I got here? At the hospital?"

Michael's mouth fell open. He promptly snapped it shut. "Jesus, you think you can just step into my life after two months of silence and start quizzing me like this? You have alot of nerve." For the third time, Michael tried to leave the bed. Brian gripped the sleeve of his shirt.

"Mikey, please. Stay. Tell me what's wrong."

Michael exploded. "Wrong?! I'll tell you what's wrong. The only father I've ever known is lying in a hospital, withering away to nothing. I just divorced the man who promised he'd never leave me, never hurt me. And you...you..." Michael's voice cracked and died. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye, snaking down his cheek. Brian surged from the bed and captured Michael's face between his hands, blinking back the sting in his own eyes -- a sting elicited from the mere sight of Michael's tears.

"Hey, it's okay Mikey, it's okay. I know." Michael melted into the solace of Brian's embrace, winding his arms tightly around the slender torso and burying his face in the strong, sweet smelling chest, watching as his futile tears trickled down Brian's tan skin.

"I missed you, Mikey. God I missed you. I had planned to come home three days from now, no matter what. I swear to you."

"I believe you, Brian. I'm sorry." He pressed a smattering of soft kisses to Brian's warm chest, savoring the feel of his arms around him, the taste of his skin, mingled with the saltiness of his own tears. "I missed you, too. So much."

Brian's arms tightened around him, and Michael absorbed the vibration of his chuckle. "I guess we're both just a couple of stubborn, selfish assholes, huh?"

Dumbfounded, Michael pulled back, searching Brian's face, and finding nothing less than what he had expected. A smug, self-satisfied smirk -- firmly in place. It pissed him off.

"How was I a 'stubborn, selfish asshole'? How is any of this my fault? You're the one who left without telling me!"

"You're the one who married Ben!"

"Fuck Brian, you practically told me too!"

"Do you always do what you're told?"

"Do you always get such a kick out of manipulating people? Lets not forget the little episode at Babylon!"

"Here you go again, Michael, living in the goddamn past!"

"Don't you dare talk to me about living in the past! You wrote the book!"

Brian wanted to throw something. Break something. And here, seconds ago, he had foolishly believed everything was solved between them.

Maybe he wasn't ready for a relationship with Michael. Maybe he was fooling himself.

With a challenge in his eyes, Michael stepped close to him, so close their noses almost touched. "Why _did_ you leave like that, Brian? Or are you too afraid to tell me?"

_Oh, good one, Mikey. _

"Because you chose Ben over me." Brian's jaw snapped shut, as if stunned at the words he had spoken. He leaned in even closer, determined to match the jeering lilt of Michael's voice, the taunt in his eyes. "And because I was scared -- _scared_ -- that you love him more than you love me. There. Are you fucking happy now?!"

Michael's smile was slow and decidedly cheeky, but Brian glimpsed veiled, utter joy -- a beautiful light of pure happiness -- shimmering behind guarded eyes. It triggered an odd type of explosion in his heart. And his groin.

"Yes. I am."

Brian couldn't seem to take his gaze from Michael's lips as they flexed to form those three words, and as if with mind of its own, gravity pulled them towards one another; even though Michael's foredoomed better judgment was screaming in denial, even though Brian knew this wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

"Good. Are you going to stop asking me that fucking question?"

"Which one?" Michael breathed.

Brian spared a hasty glance at Michael's eyes, and felt a synchronous quiver of satisfaction and relief -- Michael was having an equally tough time keeping his eyes away from his lips. A tiny shock wave of anticipation shallowed his breathing.

"The one about why I left like I did."

"Oh, yeah. I will. Only if you stop asking _me_ the same fucking question."

"Yeah? Which one?" Brian purred, and he couldn't help himself; Michael was so beautifully entranced, his lips so provocatively close. He darted out his tongue to trace the fullness of Michael's pouty bottom lip, teasing the plump flesh, pulling away as quickly as he had licked. Michael's essence ran through the very blood of his veins, driving his pulse, muddling everything but an overwhelming sense of love, passion, and need -- all for the man before him. He had only ever felt this way with Michael, therefore it wasn't a completely new sensation; but he had never experienced it on such an intense level, such an emotional level.

It exhilarated him. It terrified him.

"The one about who I love most," Michael managed to croak. He looked thoroughly intoxicated -- his eyes were hooded, flickering in anxiety. It took great effort to keep them open, and even more to keep himself from mindlessly sinking into heat of Brian's gaze, into the temptation of the lips he thirsted for, so very close and warm.

"You never answered it."

At Brian's apathetic response, irritation flickered briefly in eyes emulsified by conflicted lust.

Brian was was having a conflict of his own. He was getting hard -- and he didn't know whether to be mortified or titillated. They weren't even touching -- almost, but not quite; just enough for a sheet of paper to slip between them, but after restless weeks of separation and emptiness, even mere proximity was painfully erotic.

_Damn. What the fuck is happening._

"Mikey - "

"Shut up."

Hot, greedy lips closed over his own with staggering force, suckling and nibbling in hungry desperation. Propelled backwards by the intensity of Michael's attack, Brian groaned into the moist heat Michael's mouth, battling with the sinfully long tongue wrapping around his own. His hands gripped Michael's hips, anchoring himself against the surge of intensity, against the ignited flame Michael had become. He pushed against Michael's devouring lips, growling, wanting more, needing more. Doubts fled. The sexual drive was too deeply ingrained, the need for Michael too great, intensified by a two month drought.

Michael dragged Brian's swollen lower lip through his teeth, a glint in his eyes that sent shivers of pleasure rushing down Brian's spine. Michael pulled back, a thin trail of saliva stretching and breaking their connection.

"Does that answer your question?"

Chest heaving, Brian somehow, through the tingling numbness of his mouth and the consuming haze of his mind, found the ability to form a succinct response.

"No."

He jerked Michael's hips forward and ran a deft hand up the slope of his back, grasping the nape of his neck and pushing Michael's head forward, meshing their lips with crushing fury. It was not gentle, it was not tender -- is was pure, raw, animalistic hunger.

Michael grunts nearly sent him insane. It was a sound he had never heard from him before. And he wanted more.

Then a new sound pierced through his newfound aural addiction -- the sound of ceramic breaking. He had backed Michael into the nightstand, toppling it over.

Jarred from the mindless frenzy; they paused, locked together and staring down at the ruined lamp.

"Oops."

Michael grinned at the indifference of Brian's muttered assertion, and reversed their positions, flipping Brian against the wall with a thud. He grinned wolfishly, subconsciously wondering just when he had gotten so bold, then ducked his head, and without pretense, he bit and sucked at the prominent, pulsing vein running along the column of Brian's neck.

Brian released a strangled moan, thrashing against the wall.

"Does THAT answer your question?" Michael growled, gently lapping at the bitten flesh in apology.

"Hell no." Brian nuzzled his face against the side of Michael's bent head, and sucked the tip of his ear, nearly exploding when Michael hummed his appreciation against the sensitized skin of his neck.

"You still need convincing, huh?" Michael panted, dragging wet lips up the arch of Brian's neck to nibble on the corner of a kiss-swollen mouth.

"Yes," Brian groaned, fisting his hands in Michael's hair, "lots." Michael hiss was sharp as Brian lifted his leg to wrap around his naked thigh, holding it there, pressing their erections together. His weight now supported on one foot; Michael bucked against Brian's hips, and lost his balance, nearly succeeding in falling flat on his ass. But Brian held him tight, and for a split second, they were laughing together, and almost -- but not quite -- trapped in irrecoverable moment of awkwardness. It was enough to pull Michael from the swirling vortex of liquid flames, from the desperate intensity, kindled by twenty years of careful suppression and constraint.

But Brian had other plans. He wasn't quite ready to extinguish the flames. He had been burnt to many times before, and he was addicted. Self-control was singed.

Time slowed as they listened to the harsh breathing of the other, marveling that they were the sole ones responsible for it.

Michael nearly panicked when knuckles rasped across his belly, lifting the hem of his shirt with a cross-wise motion.

_No. I'm not ready for this. He's not ready. _

"Brian. Bri...oh God."

Brian was nibbling that spot -- right behind his ear. Frissons of pleasure shot all the way down to his bare toes, curling them.

His shirt was almost to his chest.

"Stop."

And Brian did, immediately.

"What? What is it?" he whispered in concern. _Dammit_, Michael thought, _why does he always have to know something is wrong? Am I that damn invisible? _

"Nothing...we just...we shouldn't be doing this. My mom needs me. I told her I'd be there at 6:30. It's six."

Brian was busy feasting on claimed territory, lewdly slurping on Michael's ear, his neck, his jaw. Michael couldn't pull himself away. This was all too surreal. It was heaven.

But it wasn't how it was supposed to happen. Not like this. Too many things remained unsaid, too many truths remained safely tucked away, cleverly deflected. Not to mention..._just don't think about it, Novotny, _Michael scolded himself, pushing the looming thought aside.

"Tell her something came up, you'll be late. Call Emmett and Ted. Have them stay with her until then."

Michael pushed away, looking into Brian's clouded eyes with disappointment.

"Jesus, Brian! My Uncle is dying! How can you think about...this...us..." Michael fumbled on the words, a blush creeping up his neck.

Brian sighed and rolled his eyes. "Sex?"

"- thank you....right now?"

Brian blinked brightening hazel eyes, and ducked his head in chagrin.

They both knew why.

To escape from reality. To avoid the blaring unfairness of life.

To hide in each other.

Wavering slightly, Michael swiped a hand across his forehead and exhaled a shaky gust of air. "Nevermind. Look, maybe you should go."

Brian straightened against the wall. "Why?"

Michael's mouth fell open in aggravation, and he moved to walk away, pivoting on his heel -- and spinning smack dab of a shard of ceramic lamp.

"OUCH! Fucking piece of shit!" He hobbled in place, cradling his abused foot and landing unceremoniously on the edge of the bed. Brian was immediately seated at his side, prying the deathgrip of Michael's fingers from the arch of his foot and chuckling as he inspected it for injury.

"It's not funny, asshole! OW! Quit poking on it!"

"You're fine, drama princess." Brian bent and tenderly kissed a small, swelling patch of skin on Michael's heel. "Now c'mon, let me stay."

"Give me one good reason. A REAL reason."

With index finger and thumb, Brain gripped Michael's chin and turned his head, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"Because you need me. _I _need you. We can't go through this alone, Mikey. It's all I'm asking for right now. Be here for me, and I'll be here for you. Like always." He leaned his forehead against Michael's temple, gazing at him from beneath long eyelashes and sticking out his lower lip for effect. "Please?"

Michael attempted to shove him away, but Brian was slumped against him in playful deadweight. "Okay, okay. I just...I don't know if I can do this. He's..."

Brian grabbed Michael's hand, and squeezed. "Like your father. He's like mine too, Mikey."

With watery eyes, Michael nodded gratefully, and kissed Brian's forehead.

"Thank you, Bri." He nuzzled against Brian's cheek in intimate thank you. They released simultaneous breaths of repressed passion and imminent grief, resting against each other for several moments, where they may have never moved, had Michael not broken the silence.

"Now - I've got to take a shower." Brian raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment, deliberating misinterpreting Michael's statement.

_"Alone, _silly.Michael smiled, and gave Brian a firm push, toppling him over onto the pillows.

"I don't know why I put up with you," Michael tossed over his shoulder, in a tone that was half-serious, half-joking.

Brian watched him leave, hugging a pillow to his chest and breathing in Michael's lingering scent, already enmeshed by a wash of loneliness -- and Michael hadn't even left the goddamn room.

"Because you love me," Brian whispered, as Michael disappeared around the corner.

And he was serious.

* * *

One hour later found them at Pittsburgh Memorial, traversing the suspended walkway that lead from the cafeteria to the intensive care unit. The enclosed bridge offered an unflattering view of downtown Pittsburgh, aberrantly calm and largely concealed in drifts of wet, dirty snow. The sky was markedly dark and dreary for the earliness of the morning; a morbid metaphor for that which faced the two somber men walking not quite side-by-side.

A weighty abeyance of quiescence had settled between them since the departure from Debbie's house, and neither knew the reason -- was it because of the impending visit with Vic? Or because of the unprecedented turn their supposedly platonic relationship had taken in the last two hours alone? Secretly, each man ambivalently decided that it was a healthy combination of both.

Michael took Brian's taciturnity in stride, yet he could not help but be puzzled by it, even though the answer to his own question lurked unconsciously in carefully sequestered regions of his mind -- regions that were best left undisturbed. They should have had so many things to talk to about, so many questions to ask. Since Brian's abscondment, so many things had changed and happened in their respective lives; things that they automatically made each other a part other, made each other's business. Two months of their lives had gone by without the other there to share in any of it. Thus, they should've have tons to 'catch up' on; but during the short, cold trip to the hospital, they drove in relative silence.

But it wasn't _just_ silence. It was the most bizarre, most ridiculous sort of silence they had ever experienced.

It was akin to the silence shared between two lovesick teens embarking on that first, capricious date. When fingers brush and shy glances are shared and conversation is stilted and cumbrous; when inadvertent touches send fire coursing through every electrified nerve fiber. Which, Michael thought, was simply absurd. Best friends didn't find themselves in those kind of situations. Or with those kinds of feelings.

His mind replayed over the meager conversation.

_"Are you cold?" Brian's eyes were hidden beneath the darkened lenses of aviator sunglasses. He fiddled with the air vents of the mediocre Dodge. _

_Michael rubbed his hands together, vaguely unsettled by Brian's solicitousness . "Not too bad." Puffs of warm breath emitted every word in a cloud of white fog. "I can drive, if you want. You must be tired from your flight."_

_Brian's smile was soft and lop-sided. "I'm fine. I slept better last night than I have in months." _

_Michael hesitantly swiveled his head to search Brian's gaze, but the other man's eyes were riveted to the slippery pavement as he pulled from the gravel driveway, the corners of his mouth turned down in a habitual frown. _

_Nothing more was said until they reached the first stop light._

_"Do you want to get something to eat first?" Michael shot Brian an aporetic glance. "Just asking," Brian clarified, certain that Michael thought he was putting off an unpleasant visit -- as often times, Brian fairly admitted, he was prone to do. _

_"Not unless you want to. I'm not really hungry." _

_Brian glanced quickly at Michael. "Me neither."_

_The lull of a particularly lengthy traffic light punctuated the silence. It was nearly unbearable. Brian switched off the radio with discomfited briskness as the droning of a sappy love song filled the confines of the cramped Neon. Fuck it, he thought, this has to stop. _

_They both chose the same moment to speak. _

_"Mikey - "_

_"Brian - " _

_Michael smiled demurely. "You go first."_

_Brian shifted his grip on the steering wheel, eyes darting to the rear-view mirror. Anything to make him appear blasé._ _"That's okay, you can go first."_

_"No, I said you could go first."_

_"Dammit, Michael, I said you could go first." _

_Michael licked cold-reddened lips anxiously, looking at Brian patiently. Lovingly. Brian cursed himself as he squirmed in the seat. He could feel Michael's gaze. Burning into him. Burning through him. Could feel him chewing on his full lips, and he wanted to lean over and still the fidgety gnawing with a gentle kiss. _

_"Well?" He said, a little too sharply. The air in the car was suddenly and inexplicably sweltering. _

_Michael blinked slowly, still looking at him. "I was wondering...I wanted to tell you....I mean I wanted to ask you..." From the corner of his eye, Brian saw Michael turn his head and stare straight ahead, sagging a little in his seat. "...if you could turn up the heat."_

_Brian's pounding heart bled back to normal. His grip on the steering wheel lessened, and something sharp churned and clenched the bottom of his gut. _

_He blamed it on hunger pains. _

Michael had felt Brian's eyes. Constantly on him. Gauging his mood, waiting for words of assurance that nothing had changed between them, that they were -- for lack of better word -- okay. Even amidst the frenetic rush of morning traffic, Michael could feel the corner of a hazel eye burning into him, willing him to speak. Years ago, maybe, he would've given in, spoken the words Brian needed to hear. But not now. Not today.

The ironic thing was -- Michael knew Brian didn't think he was he was being pretentious in his scrutiny. But Michael had read the Kinney Manual, and he had it all -- the annotations, the glossary, the footnotes, the bibliography. And he'd never had to read it more than once. Every word was written on his heart.

So when the visual audit was returned in kind, Michael had taken arcane conquest from the fact that Brian Kinney squirmed. He chewed on his perfect lips, or thrummed his fingers against the steering wheel, or pretended to scope the traffic with inordinate interest. Maybe, Michael suspected, he was afraid that the interrogation _he_ wanted to initiate would be turned upon him like the proverbial double edged sword.

But that was not why Michael had stared at him.

Perhaps it was for a more shallow reason.

Sporting stylish sunglasses, perfectly coiffured hair, and a sleek, black leather jacket with a fashionably upturned collar -- he was beautiful. He exuded cool mischievousness, oozed irresistible charisma. He had 'rebel' written in every sensual line of his body and 'trouble' tattooed on his forehead.

But most of all -- he was sitting there beside him. Real. Tangible. Touchable. Not a fading effluvium of an esrtwhile dream. Michael found himself pinching his own arm, or brushing up against the warmth of Brian's baby soft skin -- just be sure that it was real, and just to alleviate the numbness prompted by the deprivation of his mere presence.

He'd come so dangerously close to breaking the glacial barrier standing between them -- and perhaps more. And just from simply looking at the man. Brian held a power over him that to this day, Michael could not explain. He wasn't sure he wanted to -- for it was part of their incomprehensible relationship, part of the dynamic duo.

It was their secret; their blissful sensation, and no one else's.

The tactile ache of Michael's heart vanquished whenever he looked at him, whenever he touched him; and consequently, Michael hated how needy he felt, how clingy and childish Brian unknowingly made him feel -- because if it were up to him -- Brian would never leave his sight again.

The other man had been in the Pitts a total of seven hours, and yet Michael was already swamped by unsubstantial fears, the most prevalent of all that Brian would finally get enough of the city he hated, the atmosphere he hated, the people he hated -- and run back to Justin, back to the sparkling lights of Sunset Boulevard and the limitless temptations of the flesh.

Justin. Michael wasn't entirely Brian was over him, if only for the fact the _he_ was not yet over Ben. Michael knew far too well -- painfully well -- that long-term relationships did not simply dissolve over-night, nor did the emotional strings so strongly attached to them snap like brittle twigs. It was a complicated issue, with complicated emotions, and complicated consequences.

Just plain old fucking complicated.

Furthermore, the details of their separation were more than sketchy, and for all Michael knew, their purported break-up could be no more than one of the frequent "kick you out but come right back" type of arrangements they so monotonously indulged in. But he didn't want to think about that -- it hurt too much.

Michael knew one thing -- being that he sure as hell wasn't going to ask. Brian would have to tell him willingly, just as he would have to tell him willingly about Ben -- and THAT he never planned on doing.

But right now, in the sterile, repugnant halls of Pittsburgh Memorial; Michael's thoughts were largely consumed with his Uncle. Seeing him, talking to him -- and knowing that it could for the last time. Vic Grassi was a man who had been a father, a parent, in so many ways. A role model, a guide, a confidant -- so many things.

The shrill pitch of a female voice bellowed over the intercom, interrupting Michael's melancholy retrospection. He didn't feel Brian at his side, so he turned his head enough to discern the blur of Brian's form; enough for the other man to see the shadow of his profile.

"Why the hell are you walking all the way back _there_? I don't bite."

Brian harrumphed. "That's not what I recall."A tiny smirk blossomed on his face as Michael flushed an attractive shade of pink. "I'm enjoying the view."

Michael's head whipped around. "What view?"

Brian nodded out the plexiglass surrounding them in the narrow walkway. "Pittsburgh. Hasn't changed a bit."

"Did you expect it to?"

Brian laughed in his throat. "That would be wishful thinking. And you know I don't engage in wishful thinking."

Michael shoved his hands into his pockets. "Never?"

"Never. Well..." he drawled, in careless monotone, "maybe a _few_ times."

Michael tried to appear flippant as they exited the bridge. "Uh huh." He stopped to gain his bearings. It had been a while since he'd been in this wing of the building -- not long enough. Brian suddenly appeared beside him, a look of disdain twisting his face.

"I fuckin' hate this place."

"Yeah. Me too."

With a grimace, Michael headed for the nurse's station, and this time, Brian walked at his shoulder, as if Michael could protect him from the onslaught of unwanted memories, from the incursion of the acrid sights and smells that evoked them.

"Have you seen him yet?"

"Seen who."

"Oh, I don't know -- Sadam Hussein, Jesus Christ, Howard Stern. Your Uncle for fuck's sake, Michael."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I dunno. Procrastination, I guess. And maybe because I didn't want to come alone." _And maybe because I might have the same disease._

"Where's Beavis and Butthead?"

"_Emmett_ and _Ted_ are in Massachusetts."

"Whatever the fuck for?" But despite the offhanded query -- Brian knew.

"What do you think?" Michael snapped.

"Signing their death certificates? 'I solemnly swear to fuck you and only you for the rest of my miserable fucking life.' Losers."

"You know, not everyone is a rabid misogamist."

Brian's snort echoed in the dim hallway. "They should be."

"So everyone should be like you, huh?"

"Nah, that would be perfection overkill."

"More like nothing would ever get done in the world because we'd all be too busy fucking everything in sight. So what if Em and Ted want to get married. Couldn't you at least say something nice about it?"

"Hoo-fucking-rah."

"I don't get it. What's so terrible about the concept of marriage?"

Brian cracked his gum noisily, searching the ceiling with bored eyes. "You tell me. You're the one with the divorce."

Michael's felt his steps falter. Hated himself for it. Why couldn't he just let it roll off his back, like he always did, like Brian did? Yet he couldn't stop himself as he came to a halt in the midst of the deserted hallway, staring at Brian with wounded eyes and an open mouth.

Brian walked a few more steps, until he sensed Michael's absence at his side. He turned to look over his shoulder, chewing his gum casually. Like they had been discussing the weather.

"Coming?"

"Fuck you! I can't believe you just said that to me. That was a low blow, even for you, Kinney."

"My low blows are better than that." He blew a pink bubble and popped it, arching his eyebrows suggestively.

Michael's face reddened. His eyes melted into simmering pools of brown heat. With furor, he grabbed the sleeve of Brian's jacket, pulling him to the nearest secluded corner and pressing him against a thrumming coke machine.

Miffed, Brian's eyebrows knitted together. "Hey, watch it! That's an armani you're jerking on!"

"Fuck you, and fuck your armani!" Michael hissed through clenched teeth, poking Brian in the chest. "I don't need your bullshit right now. You don't have the first idea what happened between Ben and I."

His back against the cold plastic of the coke machine, Brian leaned in towards Michael's face. "Maybe that's because you won't tell me. I asked you this morning, Michael. What do want me to do, beg?" Brian's laugh was scornful. "So you got married. It didn't work out. Big fucking deal. It happens everyday. Get over it."

Neither paid heed to the passing doctor, who eyed them with piqued interest as he sipped from a styrofoam cup.

"What the fuck do you know about it? You've never committed to anyone or anything in your entire life."

An almost imperceptible hurt flickered across hazel irises. "Yes I have."

"What, your dick?"

"You."

Michael blinked, his anger dissolving, displaced by outright surprise.

"So I didn't proclaim my eternal love on bended knee. So I didn't sign a piece of fucking paper or repeat some fucking mantra after some fucking priest. But I committed myself to you, Michael, eighteen years ago. Don't try to tell me I don't know what it's like."

They shared a long, meaningful look, sparks of understanding -- and maybe something more --flaring between them. Then, Michael looked down, shaking his head softly.

How absurd was _this_? How much weirder was his life going to get?

"Then why can't you have a little compassion?"

Brian firmly told himself that he was NOT disappointed by Michael's response.

He deflected the unwanted emotion with his usual route of diversion.

"If you're looking for compassion, you can find it in the dictionary between cock and cunt." Laughter glinting in his eyes, (after all, what else was one to do when they felt their heart would break?), he stared Michael down, his lips stretched thin as a full blown grin threatened to burst free. He watched as recognition slowly spread across Michael's furious expression, building to a gradual smile as the buried memory of the events surrounding an old high school joke resurfaced. Michael let out a short, breathless laugh, his head falling against Brian's chest in reluctant surrender.

"Fuck. We're like two sex deprived lesbians, aren't we?"

Brian mock shuddered. His fingers settled on the back of Michael's neck. "_You_ maybe, not me -- after all, you were the one jumping all over _my_ ass."

"It's not like your ass is innocent." Michael's smile turned sheepish. "Though I guess I'm a little over-sensitive right now."

Brian arched his eyebrows in agreement. "Pfft. You can say that again. You aren't pregnant, are you?"

"Shut up." Michael pinched Brian's stomach lightly.

"Not until you own-up. I want to know what's bothering you."

Michael was grateful for the emptiness of the hallway, and even more grateful for the emptiness of his stomach. Good thing he hadn't eaten breakfast.

He wrapped his arms around Brian's waist for a brief hug, closing his eyes against the pain. He wanted to tell him -- so badly. Wanted to tell him everything. Wanted to make him promise that he'd never leave again. Wanted to tell him he loved him, only him.

But all he could say was, "I will. When I'm ready. I promise."

"Wow, that should be around the year 2010."

"Brian..."

"Mikey, you are _so_ pathetic."

Michael drew back, straightening Brian's rumpled jacket, smiling affectionately. "Glad you think so."

"Yeah. Me too." They shared intimate smiles. Foreheads touched softly, then Brian was reaching for Michael's hand.

Together, they walked down the hall, perhaps more grateful than they'd ever been to have each other.

* * *

They stood silently, unmoving, watching from the doorway as Debbie bent to whisper in Vic's ear, patting his hand gently before she rose. Vic nodded, smiling at her words, but he did not open his eyes.

Deb walked towards Michael with heavy steps, a distinct droop in her proud posture. Light kindled in bleak eyes when she spotted Brian Kinney, standing behind her son with a protective arm draped about his shoulders.

Michael pulled his mother into a wordless hug, taking in the weary lines of her face, the mascara smudged cheeks and rumpled wig.

He held her for a long time, til she smoothly transferred her arms to Brian, standing quietly to the side. She stood on tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck, inclining her head to whisper discreetly in his ear.

"Thank you, kiddo...and know that I'm sorry." She withdrew, and the reason she did not look at his face might have been that she feared his rejection; or simply because she did not possess the courage to look in his eyes. But if she had, she would have been relieved to have seen something resembling disquieted rapture in hazel depths. His mouth hung open a little.

In a voice raspy and full of sadness, she said, "He's sleeping, but he told me to wake him when you came. Rodney went home to take care of some things, so you have plenty of time to visit before he gets back."

Michael rubbed comforting hands along his mother's arms. "You need to go home. Take a shower, get some sleep. We'll take care of things here. Okay?"

"But I don't want - "

"Not buts. You're no good to anyone without some rest. We'll be here. Okay?"

With a tired inhalation, she relented. "Okay." She kissed Michael on the cheek, then reached out to softly pat Brian's. "It's good to see you, sweetheart."

"You too, Deb."

She smiled, then shuffled down the hall, pulling on pink, fuzzy mittens and buttoning up her coat.

"And Ma? Take the stairs. The elevator's about to quit again."

That was all he needed, thought Michael -- his claustrophobic mother stuck in an elevator. As he turned to walk in the room, Brian touched his shoulder, stopping him.

"Was that Debbie Novotny?"

Michael nodded his head in understanding. "Yeah. Me and her had a little talk."

Brian's eyes beamed with an inkling of admiration. "What the hell did you say to her?"

"We'd be here all day if I told you now. Another story for another time."

Before Brian could say anymore, Michael walked into the room, putting forth a bright and cheerful smile.

"Hey Uncle Vic! How are they treating you?" He squeezed Vic's hand, and bent to place a kiss on his weathered cheek.

Vic's eyes opened, a grin spreading across his face at the sight of his nephew. "Hey Michael. The male nurses are to die for -- literally." His slow wink took a little of the pain from his statement, but not for Michael, who realized then that Vic was at peace with dying. Michael was anything but.

"Brian, what a surprise! I must say I'm honored that you traveled all those miles to visit an old, dying queen."

Brian's expression was half smile, half grimace; though he reasoned that Vic's good-humored teasing was an attempt to put both he and Michael at ease. It did, and he was appreciative as he scooted up a chair to sit at Vic's side. "Not just any old queen. My favorite old queen."

Vic shook an accusing finger. "If you're trying to cajole me, boy, now's a helluva time. All those years, and _now_ you make a pass at me." He winked again, then turned to Michael, seated on his opposite side.

"So how're things on the home front, Michael?"

Michael swallowed. "Fine, just fine. Rage is coming along slow, but sure. Hopefully Justin can start on the storyboards here soon. Gus is growing so fast -- he tackles me everytime I come through the door," Michael chuckled, his eyes unfocusing as his mind filled with the image of a hazel eyed toddler.

"Mmm. Just like his father."

Brian quirked a brow, but Michael continued, as if he'd hadn't heard the remark. "Mel is huge. I mean _huge. _You can feel the baby kicking sometimes. Her and Lindz play Scrabble with Gus before bed, and they use her stomach like a table. She told me the baby kicked the board off the other night."

Vic chuckled. "It's your's, alright. You kicked like nobodies business."

Brian couldn't take his eyes from his best friend. The way he kept his hand in Vic's, the way he somehow kept a brave, glowing smile in place; even though Brian knew that tears were on the verge of springing free. But more than anything, he was mesmerized by the light that sparkled in his eyes when he talked about Gus and the baby.

It was an indescribable feeling -- the way Michael talked about Gus as if he were his own son, and Brian liked the idea. Liked the feeling that came along with it. Family.

Yet, he felt like a bystander to a private conversation. Michael hadn't even tried to tell him these things, like he was so easily telling Vic. He should be hurt, but he wasn't. He was mad at himself.

For wasting two months he could've been spending with Michael, two months he could've been a part of. They were gone forever now.

Then he thought about Ben. Thought about the joy in Michael's eyes as he told him that Ben had proposed, and that he had accepted. Thought about them together, exchanging vows, sharing a tender kiss, a celebratory wedding night. He shoved the loathsome thoughts away. By now, he was getting quite good at willing them out of his mind's eye.

Vic's wistful voice snapped him back to the present.

"I wish I could be here when it's born, Michael, your son or your daughter."

Michael's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and his brittle smile was painfully bittersweet.

"It's my only regret. But not my biggest."

Michael's eyebrows knit together in confusion. Brian ducked his head. He knew to what Vic was referring.

"What's your biggest regret, Uncle Vic?" asked Michael softly.

Vic took Michael's hand in his own, and Brian's hand in the other. "That I never got to see my boys get together. As I've always known you would."

Brian and Michael exchanged furtive glances. Color rose in Michael's cheeks, while Brian seemed fascinated with his jean clad knees.

"But that doesn't mean I won't be watching. And I swear to God, if you two screw it up, I'll haunt you both so bad you'll wish you'd never been born."

Michael shook his head. "Uncle Vic - "

"Listen to me, Michael -- you too, Brian. Take the advice of an old, dying queen. Don't let stupid, trivial little things come between you. Life is short, boys. Don't leave things unsaid. Don't take love for granted. What you two have...is special. Very special. Don't let your fears throw it all away. Don't be one of those people who sit around and say 'I wonder'. Don't waste precious time with substitutes. There's nothing like the real thing -- and you two...you two have the real thing. More real than I've ever seen. And the bastard that said live every day like it's your last? He was right."

Vic took the hands within his own, and joined them together.

"I don't have to tell you to love each other -- because you always will, and you always have. A love like yours is precious and rare, but it doesn't come without risk, without hurt and sacrifice. If I could beat that through both your concrete heads with a sledgehammer, I would. But those things are so damned heavy that I'm afraid it would be the end of me," Vic said, his chuckle ending in a sputtering cough.

The lines of his wizened face softened, as if a tremendous load had been lifted from his shoulders, from his very soul. His smile was keen as he took in the gentle smile the two men shared, the grip of their fingers. But he knew his mere words were not enough. They still had roads to travel before they reached one another, rivers to cross. Some they would travel together. Some alone. But at the end of the road, and on the other side of the river; there they would be, waiting for one another.

It was inevitable.

He had watched them grow together. Watched Brian love and protect Michael like he did no one else. Watched Michael glow with pure happiness as soon as he caught sight of Brian. He'd seen the kisses, the hugs, the embraces. He'd heard the words of promise between them.

Vic straightened his shoulders.

"Now. Michael, I need to talk to Brian. Alone."

Surprise skittered across Michael's face, but he nodded his head, reluctantly unlocking his hand from Brian's warm fingers.

"I love you, son."

"I love you too, Uncle Vic." Michael was at the doorway when Brian's voice halted him.

"Wait for me?" Brian did not see the knowing smile Vic aimed at the back of his turned head.

"Yeah. I'll be out here."

Only when Michael was gone from sight did Brian turn to meet Vic's calculating gaze.

"You want me to go cut you a switch from the maple tree out front?"

Vic laughed. "Would it do any good?"

"Probably not."

Vic smiled fondly. "I thought so. Besides, spanking is Deb's department. I'm just the witness."

"Yeah. I've seen Michael get his butt swatted a few times."

"Good ole Sis. I know I don't have to tell you to look out for her. I know Michael will, but he has alot on his plate right now. Too much. God bless him, he doesn't think I don't know about Ben. Doesn't want to trouble me. So I let it be."

Brian had to restrain himself from fishing for information like some gossipy old woman. Did Michael tell things to everyone but him nowadays?

A short pause settled over the room, filled by the steady beeping of monitors and the distant murmurs of nurses and doctors.

"You've waited long enough."

Brian looked at Vic blankly. "For what?"

"For him. You almost waited too long."

"Vic, Mikey and I - "

"Are in love. Always have been. Look me in the eyes, son, and tell me you're not in love with him, and I'll get off your case."

Hazel eyes locked onto watery blue. Vic studied the stubborn set of Brian's jaw, the silent battle in his eyes, holding and countering the defiant gaze with a contumacy of his own.

Finally, like in wise old parables and banal truisms; experience won out over youth. Brian sighed and looked away.

"I thought so. Tell him, Brian. Tell him what you can never say to Justin."

Brian's laugh was strained. "You and your sister are so different it's almost scary. But you shouldn't steal each other's lines, you know."

"And _you_ know why she you pushed on that kid. Just as well as you know why you got involved with him in the first place."

Brian laced his fingers together like a seemingly well-behaved little boy who was secretly plotting a plan to plunder the cookie jar. His weak smile was noncommittal.

Vic inwardly smirked. "By the way, how is Sunshine? Why didn't he come with you?"

"He's good. He's going to be very successful one day. I'm proud of him. Once we got away from Pittsburgh..." Brian shrugged, crossing an ankle over his knee, "everything seemed to fall into perspective. We drifted apart. He got job offers, slews of admirers...and you know how Justin is. Loves attention, loves to be in the spotlight. He fell in love with Hollywood and all the glitter and shine. All the bullshit."

"And you hated it."

"Yeah. Justin's young." Brian shook his head with mild wonder. "Fuck, only nineteen. I remember what's it's like to be that age. I saw just how different our perspectives are once we got out of Liberty Avenue, away from the ordinary. He loves everything about LA. I, on the other hand, couldn't give a fuck about it -- and I'm not about to hold him back. So, we just...went our separate ways."

Vic nodded wordlessly, a thoughtful expression upon his face. "Good for him. You gonna go back?"

Brian ran a fingernail along the heel of his shoe. "I don't know."

"I'd be afraid to let him out of my sight, if I were you."

"Who, Justin?" Brian sniffed, smiling fondly. "He can take care of himself. He learnt from the best."

"Not Justin. Michael. You're playing with fire, Brian."

"I'm not playing with anything. Certainly not Michael."

Vic's laugh was disbelieving. "You've played with him for eigthteen years, Brian, and you've almost fucked it up."

Brian's eyes sharpened. "No, Vic, that is one thing I've tried very hard _not_ to do." Something very dark and very painful moved across his face, through his voice. "If he ever left me..."

"Brian, son -- you know Michael better than that." Brian started to protest, but Vic held out a silencing hand. "Hold on, let me finish before you brow-beat me." Vic protracted the silence until Brian's head rose, an irritated frown in place. "Once you've had a taste of the forbidden fruit -- once you know him as a lover and take him as yours -- you could never be happy with anyone else. He'd be it, and the notion scares you, doesn't it."

Brian looked away, flustered. These weren't words he wanted to hear. He wanted to scream at Vic to get out of his head.

"Don't lose him, Brian. He loves you. But he will not wait forever."

No, thought Brian, that isn't true. Isn't true.

"I know you think you've been saving your friendship. Saving yourself. Because it wouldn't be 'just a fuck' with Michael, would it? It wouldn't be a meaningless act with a meaningless person."

Something was burning his eyes, so Brian shook the hair from his face. He needed a haircut.

He couldn't look Vic in the eyes. He couldn't. No one saw him this vulnerable. No one.

No one but Mikey.

The touch of cool fingers against his cheek did not raise his head.

"Son, playing it safe is the most dangerous thing you've ever done."

* * *

Lost in thought, Michael absently fiddled with the string of colorful paper animals adorning the ledge of the large window, gazing through the thick separation glass and watching the rhythmic rise and fall of a tiny bundle, wrapped in pink and white. Chubby cheeks and a tiny red nose were scrunched up in tranquil slumber, a pudgy jaw occasionally mimicking the movements of nursing.

There was something preeminently soothing about the visage of a sleeping baby, something uniquely pacifying.

Smiling, he let his clammy forehead fall against the cool surface of the glass barrier, watching in captivation as a tiny hand aimlessly stretched and grabbed for thin air, as pink toes curled and wriggled, kicking free from the neat wrap of her cocooning blanket. Eyes bluer than the clearest autumn sky opened and blinked, squinting against the harsh nursery light, studying her world -- so fresh and new. Her head, downy with a cap of fine red hairs, lolled to one side, taking in her silent observer with drowsy disinterest. It was only seconds later that sapphire orbs drifted closed, and her perfect face reposed once again in deep, innocent sleep.

So small, so innocuous. Michael wondered if people stopped to appreciate such tiny miracles anymore; wondered if people were so caught up in themselves that they failed to value the simple joys of life. It was humbling -- the realization that a brand new life slept before him. One day she would fall in love. One day she might have her heart broken. Michael wished, that like his Uncle, he could tell her to never be afraid to tell someone you love them, to never leave your feelings unspoken.

He nearly leapt from his skin when strong arms snaked around his waist, fingers meeting and clasping just above his navel. A chin rested atop his shoulder, soft brown hair brushed the side of his face, and a firm body pressed into his back, pulling him flush. The abrupt startle ebbed and faded just as quickly as it had come. He always knew Brian's touch, always recognized his presence; without ever seeing or hearing him. Always. Sometimes it frightened him.

"You want one?" Brian whispered breathily in his ear, as if afraid he would disturb the peacefully sleeping babies.

Michael laughed softy and nestled his head back into the crook of Brian's neck. "It's a little late to ask that question. I'm getting one."

"Mikey's gonna be a daddy," Brian quietly singsonged, hugging Michael tighter. "I can't wait. I've got _so_ many stories to tell her."

Michael angled his head, studying Brian from the corner of a skeptical eye. "'Her?' What makes you think it's gonna be a her?"

Brian's shrug was dismissive as he watched a young nurse tuck a tiny, wriggling foot back into the warmth of a blanket. "A hunch."

Michael smirked knowingly at Brian's glib response. "Since when does Brian Kinney have hunches?"

Brian's answering grin was impish. "That depends upon just what kind of hunch you're referring too."

Michael turned his head in useless effort to hide his smile. "I don't wanna know. You're incorrigible, you know that?"

Brian nuzzled Michael's ear. "And you love it."

"Cut it out." Michael squirmed to free himself, aware of the audience on the opposite side of the glass, but the charmed nurse only smiled sweetly, and continued her rounds. "So what did you and Uncle Vic talk about?"

"That's classified information." Brian smiled at Michael's irritated sigh, enjoying his squirms of obvious discomfort. "Of course, I could tell you -- but then I'd have to kill you. Or lock you up and never you let go..." his lips caressed the smooth skin behind Michael's ear, "which might not...." kissed his neck, "be so bad..."

"Brian!" Michael hissed through his teeth, elbowing him in the ribs.

"Ouch. Is that any way to act in front of a mob of impressionable infants? Tsk tsk."

Rolling his eyes, Michael finally gave up on his effort to escape Brian's grasp, and leaned heavily back into Brian's frame. The deliberate action served as a comical pout. "Would you stop fooling around? Why did you follow me, anyway?" Brian effectively budged the compact body with a playful brush of fingers across Michael's ticklish rib cage. The sequence of actions was almost routine.

"I didn't have to follow you. I knew I'd find you here. Why didn't you wait for me?"

"I wanted to be alone."

"Fair enough." Brian abruptly extricated himself from Michael, and turned to leave, the corner of a lip caught between his teeth in affected detachment. But the latent disappointment was genuine.

Michael grabbed Brian's retreating wrist, unable to see the satisfied grin that spread across the taller man's features.

"No, wait."

"I thought you wanted to be alone?"

"That's just it. I _thought_ I did. I don't." Michael pulled Brian to him. "Stay."

They stared into each other's eyes, losing all sense of time and place; until finally, Brian sighed passively, and shed his mask of unconcern as he turned Michael around, pulling him back against his chest and resuming their previous position. Michael rested his head on Brian's shoulder, and for several moments, they watched the sleeping newborns in companionable silence.

It was Brian who shattered the quietude.

"Stop trying to be mad at me."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Stop trying to pretend you don't want me around."

"So now I'm pretending? Thanks Miss Cleo."

"Fuck you, I'm trying to be serious," said Brian tightly.

"Gee, and you're not even high."

"Yeah? How do I know I didn't waltz into the pharmacy, fuck the pharmacist, and concoct my own special blend?"

"Because you're still breathing? And because the pharmacist is eighty years-old?"

"Oh? And how would YOU know what the pharmacist looks like?"

Michael tensed in his arms. "Because I went there every month. To get Ben's meds."

"Oh," Brian muttered, tempted to press the subject of Ben further; but thinking back on earlier was more than enough reason to quickly discard the notion. Now wasn't the time. "But - how do you know I don't have a doob right here in my pocket?" Grinning, he held his hand in front of Michael's face, a joint magically appearing between his spread fingers.

"Brian! Put that back! We're in a fucking hospital, for Christ's sakes!"

"Calm down, no need to get your briefs in a bunch."

"You wanna spend the night in jail, be my guest, but I'd rather not get arrested right now, thank you very much."

"But you'd come slip my jiffies off the roaster, wouldn't you," he murmured huskily against Michael's neck, noticing the flustered set of Michael's jaw, delighting in the way he chewed at his lips -- infinitesimal little 'Mikey tendencies' that only he could decipher, mannerisms that only he would never admit just how much he had missed.

Michael's face tightened in annoyance. "No. I wouldn't. I have enough shit to deal with. Could you please not add to the glut?"

"Alright, alright -- no need to spaz." Brian stuffed the joint back into his pocket. "I'm saving it for later anyway. You care to join me?"

Before Michael could verbalize a response, a diminutive blonde emerged from the automatic doors, smoothing conscientious hands over the front of her smock and smiling warmly. Brian recognized her as the same nurse that had been attending the newborns.

"Is there any way I can help you gentleman?"

"Yeah, we'll take...that one," Brian quipped, nodding his head towards the nearest baby as if selecting a pastry from the deli case. He winked sidelong at the young nurse from beneath a fringe of unruly bangs. She giggled, blushing furiously and shuffling her feet.

Michael suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Don't mind him, ma'am, he suffers from a rare personality disorder."

Brows crinkling in feigned curiosity, Brian arced his head enough to see Michael's face. "Which one? The one where people are mysteriously drawn to abnormal amounts of good looks and charm?" Grinning, he smacked Michael's temple with an open-mouthed kiss.

The nurse's soft smile was almost a sigh as she took in their intimate stance. "You two make a beautiful couple. How long have you been together?"

Michael's eyes widened slightly, and he stammered to correct her, imagining the ruthless retort that was doubtlessly forming on the tip of Brian's tongue. "Oh, we're just - "

Brian raised his voice over Michael's. "Nineteen years exactly on August twenty-first." With a pleased smirk, he pecked a dumbfounded Michael on the cheek.

The nurse laid a hand over heart, batting her long eyelashes. "Oh, that's so lovely! I wish you many more wonderful years together."

Brian's grin turned sly. "You can count on it. Mikey's not going anywhere."

Blonde curls bounced as the nurse giggled yet again, hopelessly enchanted by Brian's roguish grins and blatant shows of affection for the smaller man in his arms.

Michael was flabbergasted. Mouth agape, he looked up at Brian, wondering what the fuck was going through his mind.

The blonde smiled shyly. "Well, it was nice talking to you. Bye now." Brian watched her dissappear around the corner, winking again as she tossed yet another surreptitious grin in their direction.

Though he couldn't see Michael's face, he could hear the look on it.

"Okay, so maybe you did raid the pharmacy. What the fuck did you do that for?"

Brian turned a bored gaze back to the row of wiggling babies, wincing when the nearest one released a shrill cry. "Do what?"

Michael's voice was subdued. "You know what I'm talking about."

"We _have_ been together eighteen years."

"You know that's not what she meant."

"So what? I'm not going to pass you off as '_just_ my best friend'. Unlike _some_ people."

Twisting in Brian's arms, Michael leaned back against the glass, his gaze intercepting the path of Brian's distant hazel eyes. "Isn't that what we are?" he asked softly.

Brian momentarily lost himself in pools of gentle brown. When the sensation of a blissful fall threatened to overcome him, he forced his eyes away, and stared thoughtfully over Michael's shoulder, chewing the inside of his cheek. Seconds passed. Michael folded his arms. Finally, when it was obvious Brian had no intention of answering, Michael turned away, leaning his head against the window with a weary sigh. The heat from where his back had been pressed against the warmth of Brian's front was leaking slowly away, chilling him from the inside out.

When he finally spoke, Michael's voice was nearly inaudible.

"Brian? What...what happened...in bed this this morning?"

"You mean...against the wall." Not a trace of his typical lechery laced the softly spoken correction. "I don't know," he continued, a tangible struggle upon his face.

Michael gently shook his head. "Me neither."

Brian allowed a pause to emphasize his rejoinder.

"But I liked it."

"Me too."

He ran a hand along the back of Michael's head, digging his fingers into the short, black hair. "You wanna get a bite?" A half smile quirked the corners of his mouth. "To eat, of course."

Michael turned. His grin was infectious.

"I thought you'd never ask."

_TBC...._

* * *

_**Author's Note:** Another long chapter. Seems I can never find a satisfying place for a chapter to end and another to begin, so I just write until I get that 'feel'. Many more chapters to come, because as you undoubtedly know; there are still many, many issues to be addressed._


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